


Two Households III: Growing Pains

by mad_martha



Series: Two Households [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 03:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mad_martha/pseuds/mad_martha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's final term in his Sixth Year is a difficult one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Part 1/8**

 

Harry sometimes wondered if there was a conspiracy in which everyone was involved except him.  Or if, perhaps, all his thoughts were leaking out of his head and infecting the people around him.  This wasn't a new piece of paranoia on his part, but it seemed to crop up with greater frequency lately.

"You're not a member of the Order of the Phoenix, are you?" he demanded of Hermione Granger one day.

She paused in what she was saying, unsure how to take this.  "Well, no.  Not that I wouldn't be flattered to be asked – "  His scowl cut that line of thought dead pretty quickly.  "But I really don't think they're looking for witches and wizards who haven't finished school yet, do you?"

"Sometimes I wonder," he muttered.  He pretended to go back to reading his textbook and she went back to what she was saying to Ron.  Harry wished she would get on with it and leave.  He had been hoping for some private time with Ron today; it wasn't like they got many opportunities and lately it seemed like Hermione was inserting herself into all of them.

"It's just that if there was a school newspaper again, all the different clubs and societies could organise themselves through it.  It could be really useful.  But Professor McGonagall says there hasn't been one since the 1970s."

"Dunno that it's a big deal," Ron replied, and although Harry wasn't looking he could guess that his friend was shrugging.  "It's not like we don't have a good way of organising DA already."

Ah yes.  Dumbledore's Army.  The other thing that was eating into Harry's private time with Ron.  Although they never really talked about it, Harry knew that the society met at least once a week – although the intervals were irregular, depending on things like Quidditch practice and prefect patrols – in the Room of Requirement.  _That_ had come as something of a surprise; Harry hadn't realised Ron knew the room existed.  He knew about it, of course, because it was on the Marauder's Map, but it had come as a distinct surprise when he'd suggested it as a place for the two of them to meet and Ron had expressed nervousness because DA met there.

"Yes, but we don't need to be secretive about it anymore," Hermione was pointing out.  "Dumbledore has said we can continue.  So we could just put the details in the newspaper – if there _was_ a newspaper.  But McGonagall says there's isn't a printing press in the school anymore, and using the printers in Hogsmeade would be horribly expensive."

Harry wondered what would get rid of the girl.  He sighed and put his book down, rubbing his eyes.

"There _is_ a printing press," he said after a moment, and wondered if he was nuts getting himself involved in this.  Not that Remus hadn't been dropping unsubtle hints during the Easter break, which was why it seemed so suspect to him that Hermione should raise the subject now.  "It just doesn't belong to the school.  Flitwick's looking after it."

Hermione twisted to look at him in surprise.  "Is there really?"




"No, I lied."  Harry picked his book up again.

Ron chuckled.  "Come on, don't be so grouchy – is there really a press?"

Harry sighed, turning a page.  "Yes - it's Remus's.  He used to run the school newspaper with my Mum.  He's not supposed to have a press now, though, it's illegal for werewolves, so Flitwick's looking after it for him.  He said I could use it if I wanted to – I think he even wrote to Flitwick to tell him so."

"Are you going to?" Hermione demanded.

Harry gave her a look.  "And when would I do that, Granger?  More to the point, why would I want to?"

"I think a lot of people would be interested in a school newspaper.  And it's not like you're a prefect, so you have spare time."

"I can see that being popular.  Because I'm Mr. Popularity around here."  Harry turned back to his book again.

A slender hand covered the page he was reading.

"No one likes self-pity, Potter."

He glared.  "No one likes a know-it-all either, Granger, but that hasn't stopped you, has it?"

"Oy!" Ron said sharply.

"She started it," Harry pointed out.

"And Madam Pince'll finish it in a minute."  Ron slid across the window seat until he was shoulder to shoulder with Harry.  "What's the matter, mate?  You're dead moody lately."

Harry contemplated telling Ron about the grief he was getting in Slytherin from the likes of Pansy Parkinson and her entourage, but discounted it immediately.  He didn't see any point in telling Ron something like that, which was a problem he had to deal with by himself, and even if he was going to tell him it wouldn't be in front of Hermione Granger.  So he told him the other truth instead.

"Maybe I'm getting a bit fed up of having a chaperone every time I see you," he said, his eyes flicking to Hermione in aggravation.

"Maybe that's because the two of you obviously need one these says," she retorted with an edge in her voice.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry demanded, his voice rising, and Ron made frantic _shushing_ motions.

"It means," Hermione hissed back, "that you're still underage, Potter, and even if you weren't there are school rules about that sort of thing.  I am a _prefect_."

Harry was livid.  "Fine!  I must remember to let Parkinson know that she needs to accompany you and Terry Boot when you go for one of your little toddles behind the greenhouses!"

Hermione jerked back as though slapped and Ron leapt into the breach. 

"What the hell - !  Cut it out, both of you!"

"Is there a problem?" a stern voice said and the three of them turned sharply to see the Head Girl, Belinda Prewett, glaring at them from a few feet away.

"No problem," Harry said coolly, and he turned back to his book just as though he and Hermione hadn't been on the point of going for each other's throats.

"There'd better not be," the Head Girl said.  "Other people are trying to study.  Miss Granger, you're supposed to be preventing this sort of disturbance."

Hermione muttered a chastened apology and the Head Girl moved on.

"I'd like to know how you do that," Ron said to Harry irritably.  "You go from flippin' mad to ice-prince in zero seconds flat."  He turned to Hermione.  "And what the hell is that about you and Boot?" he demanded in a whisper.  "Of all the hypocrites - !"

"We're prefects!" she whispered back, scarlet-faced.  "The greenhouses are on our patrol route …."

"Bollocks," Harry said, shortly and comprehensively. 

Furious, Hermione snatched up her book bag, stuffed her books, parchment and quills into it with a shaking hand, and stormed off.

"Harry!" Ron protested helplessly.

Harry gave him a sideways glance, his lip quirking irrepressibly.  "What?  I got rid of her, didn't I?"

 

xXx

 

The subject of a school newspaper didn't go away, in spite of Hermione refusing to speak to Harry for three days after their confrontation.  Harry was unconcerned by this but it bothered Ron, who was stuck in the middle as usual.  More than usual, in fact, as Hermione didn't cease her efforts to stop him seeing Harry in private.

"I don't interfere with you," he told her angrily one evening, as she insisted on accompanying him to the library again.  "What the hell do you think we're going to get up to under Pince's nose, anyway?"

"I dread to think!" she retorted tartly.

"Besides, don't you have some _greenhouses_ to patrol?"

"For the last time, I'm not doing _anything_ with Terry Boot, let alone behind the greenhouses!  I can't imagine why you believe that – "

"I don't care what you do with Terry Boot or anyone else!" he snapped.  "That's my _point_.  I have the decency to leave you alone, since I'm not your mother or brother or anyone who has a right to tell you what to do.  So you could do me the same courtesy!"

"Your mum's worried about you," Hermione blurted out.

Ron rounded on her so fast that she took a backward step.

"What!" he demanded.

She swallowed but held her ground.  "Your mum was worried and asked me to keep an eye on you."

For a moment Ron didn't know what to say.  "When did this happen?"

"A few weeks ago," Hermione replied, subdued.  "After you had that accident on the stairs."

"When Malfoy tried to kill me, you mean?"  Ron fumed.  "Have you been reporting back to her?"

"No!"  She was shocked.  "I would never do something like that!  But she asked me to look after you, Ron, and you're my _friend!_   I worry about you too!"

"What, because I'm friends with Harry?  What do the pair of you think he's going to do to me?"

"Your mum thinks it's a bit odd that he's ignored you for six years and now he suddenly wants to be friends."  Hermione saw his face and added defensively, "Well, look at it from her point of view, Ron!  It must look strange to her, especially since you're not exactly _just_ friends."

"It's not like that, Hermione!  You know that!"

"No, I _don't_ know that!" she snapped back.  "You talked a lot about how the two of you weren't jumping into anything so soon, and then what did you do?  I'm not stupid, Ron!  _He_ might have a face that communicates as much as a brick wall, but it was perfectly obvious to me what the two of you had done when you came back to school after Easter!  I can't believe his guardians were irresponsible enough to let you sleep over there in the first place – he's only sixteen!  Don't you realise that if someone found out between now and August, _you_ could be prosecuted for it?"

"Oh, shut up!" he snapped.

"No, I won't shut up!  Someone has to make you see how stupid you're being!  What do you think will happen if you're caught doing that at school?  They'll _expel_ you, Ron."

"Yeah, like they expelled Malfoy for trying to kill me?"  He made a sound of disgust in his throat.

"Lucius Malfoy is still on the Board of Governors," Hermione told him curtly.  "Money talks, Ron.  That's why Draco will take his final year at Durmstrang with no questions asked."

"How did you know that?"

"Never mind how I know.  Just remember that the same money that bought him his place at Durmstrang can be used to buy an expulsion for you if you're caught having sex with The Boy Who Lived."

"Lucius Malfoy hates Harry."  But Ron was shaken.

"Not if it's politically expedient for him to be concerned about his welfare," Hermione said cynically.  "Besides, he has a running feud with your father, remember?"

Ron began to walk down the corridor again, but this time more slowly, and after a moment Hermione caught up with him.

"Just … back away a little, Ron," she pleaded.  "Please?  At least until he comes of age."

He sighed.  "Look, I'm going to meet Harry in the library and I'd appreciate it if you left us alone, okay?  Just this once?  I promise I won't drag him under Madam Pince's desk or anything."

She agreed to it reluctantly and it was with relief that he left her at the door.

 

xXx

 

Harry was sitting at a table by one of the long windows; outside, an unexpected spring storm was lashing, but Ron doubted his friend even noticed that, for he was surrounded by piles of books that almost rivalled some of Hermione's research efforts.  His face was as controlled as ever, but judging by the state of his hair, he was nearly frantic.

"I wish they'd told us _before_ the Easter break about taking the Charms NEWT a year early," he said, when Ron set his book bag down in a clear space.  "I'm never going to get the paper written in time."

"I thought you already decided to do yours on the Patronus Charm?" Ron replied, frowning. 

"Flitwick wouldn't let me – he says I have an unfair advantage over the others because I've been able to do the Patronus since I was thirteen."  Harry shut a book with a thump and pushed it aside, pulling another towards him.  "Granger and I agreed to swap – didn't she tell you? – because she's not allowed to do locking charms for the same reason.  But I'm thinking maybe I should do something else I'm familiar with."

"Such as?"

Harry glanced at him.  "Unforgivable Curses."

Ron twitched uneasily.  "That's more a DADA subject, though."

"True."  Harry turned a couple of pages and sighed.  "It's just that I have a really hard time getting enthusiastic about locking charms."

"The research could be useful."

"Yeah.  Boring, but useful."

"Well, I'm glad I'm not taking anything a year early," Ron said, pulling parchment and a quill out of his bag.  "It's bad enough doing Snape's latest essay.  Has he set you an assignment on poisons and antidotes?"

"We did one like that last week," Harry replied.  "I don't have my marks for it yet."

They settled down to work.

"So where's your chaperone?" Harry asked after a while.

"What?  Oh."  Ron fiddled with his quill for a moment.  "I managed to lose her this evening."

"That's a first."  Harry grinned at him.  "Do you want to, um, take a walk when the library closes?"

There was a noticeable pause as Ron's conscience worked against his wishes.

"I don't think I can," he said finally, in a subdued voice.  "We've … we've got Quidditch practice first thing tomorrow morning.  It's getting late, you know."

That had never stopped them before, and Harry was quick to notice the change of tone.  He dropped his voice.

"Is something wrong?"

"No – no, nothing!"  Ron managed a smile, but it wasn't wholly convincing.  Unlike Harry, he couldn't dissemble.  "I'm just a bit tired, mate, that's all."

Confused, but reluctant to push him, Harry nodded.  "All right then.  Maybe … maybe we can meet up tomorrow afternoon."

"Yeah."

They both turned back to their books, but there was a faint aura of constraint over them now.  Ron was all too conscious of not having been wholly honest with Harry, and Harry was miserably distracted from his Charms paper by anxiety for Ron.

 **End Part 1/8**


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2/8**

The following day was a Saturday.  Harry was awake early - possibly because of a subconscious reminder from Ron's mention of the Gryffindor team practice - so he went back to the library for more Charms research before breakfast.

The fact that the library windows overlooked part of the Quidditch pitch was incidental.

The trouble with Hogwarts' library was that it only had so many copies of particular books and the one Harry needed was already signed out.  He struggled for a while, torn between inadequate resources and the distraction of watching the Gryffindors zooming about the pitch, but when they finally went inside he gave up and headed back to his dormitory.  He was fairly sure he'd seen a copy of the book he needed on Sirius's bookshelf at home, and he already had a half-started letter to his godparents in his trunk, so he could finish that and put in a request for the loan of the book at the same time.

Blaise Zabini was stretched out on his own bed when Harry walked into the dormitory.

"What did you do to Goyle?" he asked idly, as Harry dumped his books and parchment on his bed.

"Nothing," Harry replied absently.  "He's not my type."

The other boy gave him a fleeting grin.  "He's in the bathroom, trying to wash the Stinksap off."

Ah.  Harry pulled his trunk out from under his bed and sure enough - someone had tried to break into it.

"Pillock," he said disgustedly, as he disarmed the lock and opened the lid.  "He never learns."

"What was he looking for?"

"My sweets, probably."  Harry pulled out a bag of ice mice.  "Want one?"

"No thanks.  Not my kink."

Harry shrugged and put the bag back, and began to stow his books away.  It took a little rearranging, as the collection was growing.  The disguised sex-manual Sirius had given him swam to the top of the pile as he rummaged and Harry quickly hid it again, but as he did so his fingers brushed against another book and he was surprised to feel the same tingle of illusion on it.  He pulled it out, but with Blaise watching he couldn't really investigate, so he put it casually with the messy parchment of his half-started Charms paper and took out his unfinished letter home.

The book tugged at his attention as he tried to tell Sirius and Remus about the Charms NEWT.  On the face of it, it was a smart copy of _The Collected Plays and Poetry of Gaius Cloudhook_ , a popular Fourteenth Century wizard playwright, but Harry didn't want to risk opening it and discovering Advanced Position No. 82 for Wizards Who Love Other Wizards instead.  He was good at dissembling, but not _that_ good.  So he carried on with the letter.

 _Getting the paper written on time is going to be a nightmare,_ he scrawled distractedly.  _Do you have a copy of_ Vaults And Violence: A History Of Goblin Security Measures _and if you do, may I borrow it?  The library only has one copy and Madam Pince's register says it's been signed out since 1943._

And God help the thief if she ever caught him or her.  The name in the register had been illegible; Harry wondered whimsically if it had been Tom Riddle.  Perhaps he could convince Madam Pince that it was; that might at least solve his Dark Lord problem for him.  Even Snape didn't tangle with Madam Pince if he could help it.

It suddenly occurred to Harry that he didn't need to look as far as Gringotts for a really complicated wizard locking system to study, for there was one right here inside the castle.  One, moreover, that only two people alive could open - the strange system of writhing and interlocking snakes that opened the door to the Chamber of Secrets.

Wouldn't _that_ make an essay for his NEWT?  The only problem, of course, was that he didn't have clue how it worked, other than that one had to be a Parselmouth to open it.  That didn't mean he couldn't go and examine it, though.  If he could find out what made it work ….

Harry felt a sudden flush of excitement and sat up, thinking that he might just as well go and look straight away.  Then he realised that while he'd been lost in thought Blaise had left the dormitory and he was finally on his own.  He picked up the mysterious book and muttered a counter-charm; the illusion slid away leaving him holding a fat volume entitled _Theories of Personal And Cross-Species Transformation Vol. 1_.

There was a letter from Sirius inside the front cover.

 _If you still want to learn to become an Animagus, you should read this before the holiday,_ his godfather wrote.  _It took your father and me nearly three years of study, and even though you're farther ahead than we were in Transfiguration when we started, you still have a fair way to go - this goes far beyond NEWT level.  Let me know when you've read this and I'll send you volume two._

Volume _two?_   There was another book like this to read?  Harry groaned and flopped back across his bed, hearing the parchment of his Charms paper crackling reproachfully beneath him. 

God.  This term was shaping up to be an utter swine.

 

xXx

 

"Why are we going into Moaning Myrtle's toilet?" Ron asked warily, as Harry pushed the door open cautiously.  The floor had puddles of water everywhere.

"Because," Harry said, pulling the redhead inside and closing the door behind him, "this is where the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is hidden."

"Yeah, I _know_ that.  Ginny told me years ago.  But why are we here?"

Harry paused, remembering tumbling into the Chamber with a protesting Professor Lockhart, and scrambling back out again with the professor and Ginny Weasley, assisted by Fawkes the phoenix.

"Because I'm researching locking charms," he said after a moment. 

A few mournful, hiccupping sobs from one of the farthest toilet stalls brought him back to the task in hand, and he pulled an old china cup out of his pocket which he transfigured neatly into a small glass vase filled with violets.

"Um … Myrtle?" he called cautiously.  The sobbing halted.  "It's me … Harry Potter."

Ron muffled a snigger in the sleeve of his old maroon sweater, and Harry shot him a look. 

"What do you want?" a tearful voice demanded from the depths of the stall.

"I was, ah, just passing and I wondered how you are," Harry said. 

Ron rolled his eyes and Harry glared at him. 

There was a sudden cold draft and the semi-transparent form of Moaning Myrtle drifted out of the end toilet, forever fixed in her seventh year and blinking at them from behind her thick spectacles.  Harry fixed a friendly smile on his face and held up the little vase.

"I brought you a present."

The ghost's sulky face transformed; her eyes lit up and she giggled and simpered.

"For me?" she cooed, whisking around the pair of them and making Ron shiver.

"Of course.  Where shall I put them?"  Harry looked around and saw a small marble shelf sticking out from one wall, near the cracked and pitted mirrors.  "Over here?"

"Oh, you shouldn't have!"  Myrtle hovered at his shoulder, almost breathing down his neck, as he arranged the vase carefully.  "You haven't visited me for so long ….  Where have you been?"

"I know, I'm sorry.  I've been busy - you know, with school work."

"You never use the prefect's bathroom anymore," Myrtle complained mournfully.

Harry flushed under Ron's disbelieving grin. 

"Yeah, well … I'm not a prefect, and they changed the password," he muttered.  "Look, Myrtle – do you mind if Ron and I open up the gate into the Chamber of Secrets?  I need to look at something for a project."

"You can do whatever you like in my toilet," she told him magnanimously.  "I wouldn't mind if you visited every day …."

Ron was sniggering as Harry led the way to the collection of antiquated washbasins on the other side of the room.

"You've got a real thing for ghost-girls, haven't you?"

"Shurrup, Ron.  She's lonely."

"She's _dead_ , Harry.  And it's her own fault she ended up haunting a scuzzy old toilet – she shouldn't have made a nuisance of herself after she died."

"That cow she haunted picked on her all the time when they were at school," Harry retorted.  "Myrtle was hiding from her in here when she was murdered.  I reckon I'd haunt someone if that happened to me."

Ron grunted, unconvinced.

"Never mind," Harry said.  He crouched down beside one of the washbasins, and for a second felt a twinge of doubt.  He hadn't been near this entrance since his second year.  What if Dumbledore had decided to block it up?  But the pipe with the snake scratched on it was still there.

He hadn't spoken Parseltongue in that long either.  Despite having a skill that Professor Snape had once acidly told him most professional snake-handlers would kill for, Harry felt deeply uncomfortable using it – especially with the kind of snakes Snape kept in his private workrooms.  Speaking to a docile and well-fed boa constrictor in a zoo was one thing.  Speaking to a venomous King Cobra was entirely another matter.

But when he looked at the etched snake-symbol, it was as natural as breathing to speak the word "open" and hear the sibilant Parseltongue coming out of his mouth.  Ron's eyes were huge when Harry glanced up at him, and they only got bigger as the deep-rooted clanking and grinding of the gate mechanism began to reverberate beneath their feet.  The basins slid back, the mirrors and taps lifted up, and a section of the stone tiling slipped away, leaving a dark and gaping hole in the floor.




A sour smell wafted up from the depths.

"Phew!" Ron muttered, taking a step back.

"It's not that bad," Harry said, although he had forgotten that there _was_ a smell.  It was kind of mildewy and old ….  "Well, are you coming?"

"You're kidding me, right?"

Harry paused on the brink.  "I can't study the locking mechanism from here," he pointed out reasonably.

Still Ron dithered.  "Are there spiders?"

"Doubt it.  They don't like basilisks."

"I thought you said the basilisk was dead?"

"It is!"  Harry sighed.  "Fine, you stay here with Myrtle.  I don't think I'll be long."

He sat on the edge of the hole for a second, bracing himself for the long slide-and-drop he knew was coming, then let go.

It was worse than he remembered; more claustrophobic, for he was bigger and the pipes were consequently a narrower fit.  Harry squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, enduring the bumps and jolts as he slid at high speed through the passage.  But in no time at all he was in mid-air - and then he landed with a painful thump on a slippery pile of things that crunched and slithered around with his impact.

An outraged yell warned him; Harry rolled to one side and Ron landed next to him, swearing furiously.

"You could have warned me!  That was terrifying!  Do you have any idea how much I hate enclosed spaces?"  Ron paused to catch his breath and nearly choked.  "And it stinks in here!"

That was an exaggeration and Harry wondered what the redhead had been thinking it would be like, a hidden, ancient passage accessed through the pipework from a girl's lavatory.  Still, he had to admit that this wasn't exactly a smell you could ignore.  He was going to be really popular when he went back to the Slytherin Common Room later.

Ron was clambering to his feet uncertainly.  "What did we land on?  _Lumos!_ "

It was a huge pile of bones - the tiny bones of small creatures like mice and rats and bats - accumulated over the many centuries that the basilisk had been confined to the Chamber of Secrets.  Ron was rendered momentarily speechless by this.

"Come on," Harry told him.  "We've got a little way to walk yet and there's a bit of a rock fall up ahead …."

"A rock fall?  Is this place _unstable?_ "

"Do you always complain this much?" Harry demanded.  "No, it's not unstable!  That prat Lockhart tried to get me with a memory charm and missed.  It bounced off the roof of the passage, knocked a load of loose rock down, and hit him instead."

Happily, Ron was distracted by this.  "So that's what happened to the stupid git!  I saw him in St. Mungo's last year, but no one ever said …." 

They picked their way across the carpet of tiny bones, wands held aloft for light.  It was an unpleasant journey and Harry couldn't blame Ron for shuddering occasionally.

"This is _not_ my idea of a date," the redhead muttered at one point.  " _Spend the afternoon with me on Saturday_ he says.  And there's me, like a complete prat, thinking we'd be groping behind the Quidditch stands, not climbing down a bloody great hole in the floor of a girls' toilet …."

Harry grinned.  "We can still grope, if you like," he offered.

"Thanks, but the ambience of this place just isn't turning me on."

"You must be pissed off if you're using words like _ambience_.  Can you even spell it?"

Ron spelled it.

"Show off."

They kept walking, occasionally tripping over the debris on the floor.

"You know, when people talk about the Chamber of Secrets, you get the impression that it's a pretty grand and mysterious place," Ron remarked after a while.  "Wait till I tell them it's really a grotty hole full of rat bones under a girls' toilet."

"This isn't the Chamber of Secrets," Harry replied.  "That's further ahead, behind another door.  That's the lock I want to look at."

"Oh?"

"Did - did you really think we were going to be groping somewhere?" Harry asked him uncertainly, after a moment or two.  "Because you didn't seem too keen last night."

"Oh, well …." Ron mumbled.  "It's not that I'm not _keen_ exactly."

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

"I mean, if you really don't want to - "

"No, I want to!"

"So what's the problem?"

"Well … you're still underage," Ron said, a little weakly.

Harry gave him an incredulous look.  "I was even more underage at Easter!"

"Yes, but … it'd be easier for us to get caught here.  It's not that I don't want to do stuff with you, mate - I just think we ought to be a bit careful for now, okay?"

"I s'pose," Harry said, a little doubtfully. 

Wishing that the subject had never come up, Ron wondered what he could say to reassure the dark haired boy.  Because it was pretty clear to him that Harry thought there was some other reason behind Ron's sudden reluctance to get friendly with each other.  Words were not his forte though, and in the end he grabbed Harry's arm, swinging him around.

"What - _mmf!_ "

They still needed practice at this; planned kisses, the ones they both knew were going to happen, went just fine but the unplanned ones were still a nose-bumping, lip-bruising, sloppy affair.  Not that this discouraged either of them from doing it.  They were both panting a little when they broke apart, and Harry's eyes were huge behind his spectacles.

"That convince you?" Ron demanded breathlessly.

"Um … yeah," Harry said, looking a little dazed.

Ron grinned at his expression.  "That's a good bit of graffiti for the spectator stands - _I snogged Harry Potter in the Chamber of Secrets!_ "

They both chuckled.

"Hey, that reminds me," Harry said suddenly.  "Sirius gave me this book I've been meaning to show you."

"What kind of book?"

They started walking again as Harry tried to come up with a description.

"Well, it's … how to do stuff.  Interesting stuff."

"What kind of interesting stuff?"

"You know - _interesting_ stuff."

The penny dropped. 

"Sirius gave you a dirty book?" Ron said, rather scandalised.

"It's not a _dirty_ book!  Not exactly."  Harry felt himself turning red.  "It's ….  Look, I'll show you, okay?"

Ron was turning red too.  "We'll have to find somewhere a bit quiet for that."

"I'll think of somewhere."

Finally, they found the rock fall from Harry's tussle with Professor Lockhart.  Now it was Ron's turn to look wide-eyed as he saw for the first time things that had only been described to him by his sister before.  It didn't completely fill the passage, but the gap between the heap of rubble and the ceiling of the passage was quite small.

"A _memory charm_ did that?"

"They were something he was good at," Harry said.

"The only thing, you mean."

Harry was examining the heap of rock cautiously.  The last thing they needed was to try to scramble through and trigger another fall. 

"This is going to be a bit of a squeeze.  I was smaller last time."

"Not by much," Ron teased, and he pretended to groan when Harry mock-punched him.

"Just for that, you can go first."

"What's on the other side?" Ron demanded warily.

Harry paused, trying to remember.  "More passage and … oh!  Yeah, maybe I should go first."

"Why?"

"Because you might scream when you see the basilisk skin, you big girl …."

They scuffled for a moment or two, but having grown up with multiple older brothers Ron was better at this kind of game and he soon had Harry pinned, tickling him until he begged for mercy.

"I'll show _you_ who's the big girl," Ron told him, releasing him and grinning when Harry quickly danced out of his reach.  "Here, hold my wand …."

It was definitely a tight squeeze for him, but he managed to scramble through the hole, dislodging some of the smaller rubble in the process.  Harry passed his wand through and Ron lit it again, looking around. 

"Shit!"

"Take my wand!" Harry commanded him, and he wriggled through the hole too.

Ron's eyes were nearly popping out as he stared at the cavernous remnants of the basilisk's shed skin. 

"How big _is_ that thing?" he squeaked.

"Was," Harry corrected him automatically.  "Big enough.  Too big.  But don't worry about it, it's definitely dead ….  Come on.  It's not much further."

They started walking again.

"It's funny," Ron said after a moment or two.  "It's not as creepy as I was expecting.  I mean, yeah, the big snake-skin is pretty weird, but apart from being dark, dirty and a bit smelly, it's just another old passage."

Harry thought back to his previous journey along this passage.  "It's a bit different when you don't know where you're going or what you're going to find," he said.  "And when you know a little girl's been dragged into it and could be dead."

"I s'pose so," Ron admitted in a subdued tone.  "You know, I don't think any of us ever said, but - thanks for rescuing her."

Harry didn't know what to say to this, so he didn't try.  Instead he pointed with his wand.  "There, see?  That's the second door."

"Are we going inside the Chamber of Secrets?" Ron asked.

Harry hesitated.  "I wasn't planning to," he said, "but I'll have to open the door to get a feel of how the charm works.  Are you okay with that?"

"I don't mind.  Ginny said it was full of snake-statues and there was a big face carved on the wall."

Correctly interpreting Ron's desire to see the Chamber for himself and possibly brag about it to his mates in Gryffindor, Harry hid a grin. 

"Maybe another time.  I don't want to spend too long down here or someone'll find out."

"Reckon we'll get in trouble?"

"Depends who catches us."  Actually, Harry didn't think the Headmaster would have such a problem with him coming down here, but he didn't want to put it to the test with someone like Professor McGonagall.  "Come on, I want to at least get some drawings of the lock and an idea of the charms involved."

Harry wasn't a bad artist; Ron, it turned out, was slightly better.  Between them they sketched numerous diagrams of the great seal on the door to the Chamber.  Harry also spent a long time poking it with his wand and muttering as he tried to work out if it really _was_ a locking charm (or charms plural) or something simpler.

"It _has_ to be a charm," he grumbled at one point.  "The lock has to have some way of interpreting the command to open, even if the command's in Parseltongue."

"So are you going to open it?" Ron asked hopefully.

"Yeah, I'm going to have to - "

Moaning Myrtle chose that moment to swoop through the nearest wall, startling Ron into a yelp.

"You're in trouble now!" she fussed.  " _He's_ in my toilet, with his horrible cat!"

And she was gone again.

"Horrible ….  Oh crap!" Harry said disgustedly.  In the distance, they could hear a shout echoing down the passage.  "Filch!"

Ron went slightly pale.  "Now what do we do?"

"Go back, of course.  I don't want him coming down here and kicking up a stink with Dumbledore."

By the time they made it back to the bottom of the pipe below Myrtle's bathroom, Filch had already dropped a rope down it.  Harry was inclined to see this as useful, as he hadn't fully determined how he and Ron were going to get back up the pipe anyway.  (He hadn't told Ron that, naturally.) 

Filch was ranting as they climbed back up.

"Come on out, you little buggers!  You're going to be sorry you ever messed with my drainpipes - I'll be speaking to the Headmaster and then we'll see some punishment around here - "

Harry tuned him out as he hauled himself out of the hole in the bathroom floor.  It wasn't the caretaker's retaliation he was concerned about.  Standing next to Filch, his arms crossed over his chest and his face fixed at its most forbidding, was Professor Snape. 

He watched in grim silence as first Harry then Ron emerged, then said in a very soft, silky voice: "Close it, Mr. Potter."

Jaw clenching, Harry turned to the washbasin area and muttered the Parseltongue syllables that made the basins, mirrors and taps slide back into their usual positions.  It was small comfort that Filch's eyes nearly bugged out with alarm as he did so.

Then there was silence as Snape regarded them both with hooded eyes. 

"Twenty points from Gryffindor," he said finally, very coldly, looking at Ron.  "And you may assist Mr. Filch here every evening for a week with maintenance of the bathrooms throughout the castle, Mr. Weasley, since it would appear that you have such an unnatural fascination with the plumbing.  Now make yourself scarce."

He watched Ron retreat through the bathroom door, then turned back to Harry. 

"As for you, Potter - it seems to have slipped your mind that you and I have an appointment to work on your enfeebled defences."

Harry hadn't been told of any such arrangement since he returned from the Easter break, but he knew better than to argue with Snape.  He followed the Potions Master out of the door in silence.

 

xXx

 

Snape's private workshop was part of his personal living suite, situated in the dungeons behind the Slytherin dormitories.  It was fractionally smaller than one of the regular Potions laboratories, and lined with all manner of things that Snape used in his experiments; a selection of cauldrons over burners, chests full of potions ingredients, racks of specimens, a small reference library in a glass-fronted bookcase, and, in a series of cages and glass tanks at the back of the room, numerous laboratory creatures.

Harry avoided the tanks in particular.  Some of them contained venomous snakes.

"I would prefer you _not_ to track slime from the bowels of the castle into my private rooms, Potter," Snape told him acidly.  "I assume you are capable of an elementary cleaning charm?  And close the door behind you, unless you prefer every imbecile in the dungeons to witness your pathetic attempts at Occlumency."

Harry gritted his teeth and did as he was bidden.

Not that most of Slytherin House wasn't already aware that he spent considerable periods of time in their House Head's private quarters.  Draco Malfoy had made it his business to ensure that highly lurid stories of what Harry did in there were passed around, and judging by their behaviour some of the first years still believed them.

When he turned back, Snape had taken up a position leaning against his work bench, arms folded once more across his chest.  They regarded each other for a moment or two.  Under those secretive dark eyes, Harry began to feel his spine stiffening in annoyance.




"Exactly what, Potter, do you think you and Weasley were doing down that wretched hole?" Snape demanded finally.

"I was researching locking charms," Harry replied irritably, adding rather belatedly, "Sir."

"Really," the Professor said, and his deep voice held a whole wealth of disbelieving undertones. 

Coming on top of Filch's insinuations and threats as they'd climbed out of the passage beneath the bathroom, this was too much; Harry lost his temper.

"Nah, not really," he said, affecting a bored tone.  "I thought - it's a nice day, I've not got much on.  Why not start my reign of terror now?  So I socked Ron with an Imperius Curse and made him follow me down the passage to assist me with my evil deeds, but by the time we got to the Chamber of Secrets I remembered that the monster was already dead."

The silence that followed this outburst was like treacle.  But when Snape finally responded it was not with the torrent of rage Harry had come to expect from him at times like this.

"Really, Potter," he purred.  "Was an Imperius Curse absolutely necessary - for a _Weasley?_   Besides, I was under the impression that you already had this particular Weasley thoroughly under your thumb; anything more seems superfluous.  If you intend to make a career of Dark wizardry, take my advice and avoid wasteful displays of power.  They serve only to emphasise your vulgarity before your would-be peers."

Harry's stared at him, wide-eyed, and found himself being regarded mockingly by Snape's hooded eyes.  He flushed.

"Just like your father," the Potions Master sneered.  "So quick to rise to the bait - so _easy_.  If you must play at words with the big boys, Potter, at least be prepared for them calling your bluff.  And if you cannot manage your temper better than this, stay out of the arena altogether.  To a wizard of the Dark Lord's calibre you present no sort of challenge at all.  You are not even amusing." 

His eyes suddenly flashed.

 _"Legilimens!"_

He had sort of been expecting it; his shields were locked in place, but nothing could ever fully prepare him for the sensation of having his mind assaulted.  Voldemort had all the subtlety of a pile-driver, driving his way into his victim's thoughts through sheer force, but Snape bored into Harry's mind like a superheated needle, seeking out cracks and weak spots in Harry's mental shielding, prying them open and picking over his thoughts.

There was a struggle that felt as though it took hours.  In reality, it was mere seconds before Harry managed to force Snape out and away.  He staggered back against the wall, vision swimming, breath burning in his chest.

"Passable," was the cool assessment.  _"Legilimens!"_

The needle was back, burrowing into his head once more.  Harry fought it desperately, but there was a crack in his defences -

 _\- Ron tickling him in the passage below Myrtle's bathroom, a rush of happiness at the friendly horseplay and a wish for more, but not the time, not the place, must find somewhere safer, better -_

"No!"  Harry prised the professor's questing mind loose and hurled it backwards.

It was Snape's turn to recoil, reeling back against his desk.  It took him a moment to recover his poise, but it was small satisfaction to Harry to see the Potions Master gasping for breath. 

"You had better hope, Potter," and his voice was a threatening whisper, "that I don't manage to uncover the rest of that thought.  _Legilimens!"_

Harry had some defence against him, no matter how small.  Knowing he could not block Snape again, he focussed with all his strength on another thought entirely -

 _\- heat, dust, darkness, fear, a sensation like fingers digging into his brain and a mind of intense power gripping him, holding him, searing him, another time Potter or perhaps not, laughter, laughter, laughter -_

There was an almighty crash and Harry was on his knees on the stone flagged floor of the workshop, retching weakly, his vision filled with black dancing spots.  Snape was cursing him furiously and the air was full of a myriad of conflicting smells - salt, chemicals, smoke, formaldehyde. 

"Get up, you fool!"

A hand grabbed his arm and dragged him painfully to his feet.  It took several seconds before Harry could stand unsupported, but when his vision cleared he nearly gasped.  He didn't remember having done so, but he must have retaliated to Snape's mental intrusion with something like a blasting curse, for a number of the glass tanks at the back of the room had been smashed, strewing their contents on the floor amid broken glass.  Worse, the vivarium containing Snape's King Cobra was damaged, and the creature - far bigger than any cobra Harry had seen in books or at the zoo – had escaped and was semi-coiled a few feet away.  As he watched it reared up, hood extended.  It looked like something out of an Eastern legend.

"Don't gape like a milkmaid, Potter!" Snape rasped angrily.  "This is supposedly your talent!"

It crossed Harry's mind to wonder what Snape would have done if this had happened under other circumstances, when he wasn't there.  Probably, he would have stunned the snake; Harry was tempted to do so as well, for cobras were not the friendliest of reptiles.  On the other hand, Harry had been told on numerous occasions that creatures such as snakes were only aggressive because they were afraid, so he tried to bear that in mind as he took a cautious step forward.

There was the other dilemma, of course, which was how to address a snake in the first place.

"Greetings," he said to it warily.

Unlike the other snakes he had spoken to in the past, this one did not react with surprise that he could talk to it.

"What do you want, soft-scale?" it demanded.

Harry would have been hard put to describe how, but this cobra sounded remarkably like Lucius Malfoy – cultured and contemptuous in its tone, utterly unlike the sleepy amiability of boa constrictors or the lively curiosity of smaller snakes like adders.  It was not a comforting similarity.

"I want you to go back into your tank," he told it bluntly.  It was pointless circling the subject with a snake; either they didn't understand or they didn't appreciate it.

"It is destroyed," the snake retorted coldly, "destroyed by you, which hardly comes as a surprise for soft-scales are the great destroyers of the world, as all my people know."

"It will be repaired," Harry replied, matching its tone.  He decided not to answer the accusation, although the idea of the snake referring to others of its kind as _people_ was startling.  "And when it is repaired, you will go back inside it.  When you are back inside, you may have a rat."

"I think I prefer being outside," the cobra told him, and it bared its fangs for a moment.  Its eyes were hard, glittering; Harry hastily focussed his attention on the tip of its nose instead.  It wasn't a good idea to play who-blinks-first with a cobra.  "The ground is cold but I may go where I please.  I shall find better food than rats."

"If you leave this room," Harry told it, beginning to sweat, "other soft-scales will be afraid and probably kill you."

"I am quicker than that.  I shall be gone before they even smell me."

"All the ground is cold throughout this place and you will find that you are slow and only want to sleep.  But if you return to your tank, you will have food and heat and you shall be unharmed."

"And what do you call unharmed, soft-scale?" it demanded.  "What do you know of what will be done to me if I return to that place?"

Harry barely suppressed a wince at the anger in these words.  He had forgotten that Snape kept his creatures here to provide him with everything from potions ingredients to test subjects.

"If you go back into the tank, what do you want in return?" he asked it.

The cobra seemed to think about this for a moment or two, weaving its head a little.

"More space," it said after a moment.

"I can make your tank bigger."

"Sand and a rough branch to scratch myself upon."

"I can give you that too."

"Better food.  I tire of mice and rats."

Harry considered this, thinking of the various small animals Hagrid kept for feeding some of his "interestin' creatures".  "I think I can do that too.  Not all the time, but sometimes."

"A female," the snake said.  "The others bore me."

Ah ….  Harry risked a quick look at the other tanks; none of them contained anything remotely as large or venomous as the cobra.  It hadn't occurred to him before that the company of lesser snakes might actually be boring to an aristocrat like this one, but it made a certain sense.

"I don't know about that," he said cautiously, "but I can try.  Do we have a bargain?  I will repair your tank, making it bigger, and you will go back inside.  I will ensure that there is sand and a branch put inside it and that you get more varied food.  And I will try to find you a – a mate."

The cobra let him sweat for a moment, before saying "Acceptable."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief and took a few cautious steps backwards, catching Snape's eye. 

"We need to repair its tank and make it bigger," he said to the Potions Master.  The words came out in Parseltongue, and he had to repeat himself.

"What do you mean, bigger?" the professor demanded sharply.

"Bigger!  Twice the size.  I had to negotiate with it – better living conditions, better food and some company if possible."

"Potter – "  Snape was cut short by the cobra making a wonderfully elegant and rude comment that Harry would have laughed at had it been anything other than a four foot long venomous snake making it.

Snape might not understand Parseltongue, but he wasn't a fool.  He repaired the tank with a flick of his wand; another flick and the tank was double its original length.  Harry turned back to the cobra.

"A bargain is a bargain," he told it.  "You get back into the tank and I'll bring you some sand, a branch and a snack."

The snake bared its fangs again in something unpleasantly like a grin.  "You will have to lift me," it told him silkily.

 

xXx

 

Harry spent the rest of the afternoon finding sand and a suitable rough branch, and arranging with Hagrid for a more varied diet for the cobra.  Hagrid wasn't as interested in snakes, even deadly ones, but he was perfectly willing to set up a regular supply of dead birds and moles for Snape's specimen.  He also thought he knew someone who could source a female cobra, an idea which made Harry shudder inwardly – but a bargain was a bargain, even with a snake.

By the time he was finished it was dinnertime and he wearily walked to the Great Hall.  He wasn't wearing a robe, but an extra cleansing charm made his jeans and sweatshirt reasonably respectable; he couldn't be bothered to detour to the dormitories to change. 

Ron was with Granger at the Gryffindor table when he passed it; they nodded to each other but there wasn't an opportunity to speak.  Harry took his usual seat next to Millicent Bulstrode, opposite Blaise, and helped himself to the contents of one of the big tureens, indifferent to whatever it was.  After half a lifetime of surviving on whatever scraps his aunt threw his way, he wasn't a fussy eater.

Then Pansy Parkinson arrived with her entourage.

Things had been tense in Slytherin ever since Draco Malfoy had left, but to Harry the atmosphere had been noticeably worse since the Easter break.  He had no idea what it was like in the other three Houses, but Slytherin House naturally gravitated towards a rather feudal internal structure in which one member ruled over the others by virtue of a combination of familial rank and fortune, personality and – occasionally – personal accomplishments.  That person was usually one of the senior boys, but Draco had filled the role ever since his third year.

This system had certain subtle effects on the way every other Slytherin lived their life at Hogwarts.  It determined in which bed you slept in the dormitories, which seat you were allowed to sit upon in the common room, and where you sat in relation to the 'king' and his intimates in class and at the dinner table.  It determined how you approached and addressed other students within Slytherin.  And since Professor Snape bought into this system, it could determine who became prefects, what type of punishments were dealt out (while it was perfectly true that Snape rarely took House points from Slytherins or publicly assigned detentions, he could and did assign more subtle punishments out of sight of the other Houses), and what privileges were enjoyed by whom.

The position of 'king' in Slytherin by tradition went to one of the boys.  This wasn't always the case – Bellatrix Black had enjoyed a brief tenure in her final year – but by and large the girls of Slytherin House followed the rules laid down by the king and, if they chose to, they could seek further advancement of their position by aligning themselves with the more powerful boys in the House.  Some of the girls opted not to do this (Millicent Bulstrode for example) but it was tacitly acknowledged that they were damaging their social and career prospects in later life by not making useful alliances at school.

It was almost unheard of for the boys not to buy into the system and fight for advancement by one means or another, so naturally Harry had opted to do exactly the opposite.  The previous 'king', Quidditch captain Marcus Flint, had let him get away with it on account of his fame as The Boy Who Lived and his skill as a Seeker, but Harry's waywardness had been a thorn in Draco's side for much of their school life.

Now Draco was gone.  And in his absence the current Quidditch captain Terence Higgs was trying to take his place.  To anyone who knew Higgs, this was laughable – at least, Harry thought so – but he was backed by Draco's girlfriend Pansy, who in turn was backed up by Draco's erstwhile muscle, Crabbe and Goyle.  It was an odd arrangement and definitely not what the House was used to; that much could be seen in their uneasy dealings with both Higgs and Pansy.  Some had evidently decided to throw in their lot anyway, such as Theodore Nott, but many more were biding their time to see what would happen when Higgs left at the end of the year.

Harry did neither.  He would not throw his lot in with Pansy Parkinson if his life depended upon it, and he had no intention of kowtowing to anyone else in the House.  His attitude towards the situation was at least partly to blame for the ongoing tension.

"What's for dinner, Zabini?" Pansy demanded, as she took her place.  As usual there was a spare seat to one side of her; not even Higgs presumed to take Draco's seat, although it was a moot point this evening as Higgs hadn't made an appearance.

Blaise's expression, Harry noticed, was less than appreciative of her autocratic demand, but rather than court trouble with her he reached across the table and lifted the lid on the nearest dish to look.

"Goulash," he said briefly.  "Want some?"

"Yes, please."

She must want something from him, Harry decided.  'Please' was a rare word in Pansy's vocabulary.  But Blaise merely sighed and ladled her a plateful.

"Hm."  She wrinkled her nose when he passed the plate to her.  "I wonder what's in it?"  She stirred it disdainfully with her fork and took a mouthful.

"Real ghouls," Harry suggested idly, just loud enough to carry to the nearest seats, and instantly wished he hadn't for Pansy spat it out, much to the distress of her nearest tablemates. 

"You - Potter - _disgusting!_ " she spluttered, outraged.

"You can talk," he retorted acidly.  "Why don't you just take your plate on the floor and put your trotters straight into it, Porkinson?  _Scourgify,_ " he added, with a quick wave of his wand, and the three people nearest him were goulash-free once more.

It was difficult to say how Pansy might have responded to this had Gregory Goyle not suddenly caught up with the exchange and let out a crude laugh.

"Real ghouls!" he sniggered, unheeding of Pansy's fury.  "That's good!  _Real ghouls!_ "

Blaise gave a snort of derisive laughter and abandoned his own plate with his meal almost untouched.

"I've got homework to finish," he said curtly, and he stalked away.

The atmosphere grew more tense in his absence.  Uncaring, Harry pushed his own half finished dinner to one side and politely asked Millicent to pass the treacle tart.  By the time he'd helped himself to a portion even he couldn't ignore the silence.  He looked up and met Pansy's livid blue eyes.

Her look would have reduced him to ashes had she been a powerful enough witch.

"What?" he asked coolly.

"You'll regret that, Potter," she hissed.

"Really?" he replied amiably, taking a bite of his tart and enjoying the intense sweetness. 

"You wait – "

"I've been waiting for you to make good on your threats since first year, Parkinson.  Without Malfoy you're nothing."  Harry was very conscious of the wary eyes of his Housemates flicking between the two of them, of the ill-concealed anxiety of some of the first years further down the table.  "I mean, really – what do you think you're going to do?  Hex me?  Any time you're ready then."

"I don't need to hex the likes of you, Potter."  She was actually shaking with anger; it was rather grotesque to watch, Harry thought.  He had never been one of the ones who thought her pretty.

"Of course you don't," he replied mockingly.  "In fact, it's probably safer for you if you don't try – isn't it?"

"He'll be back," she spat.

"Will he?"  For a weird moment he thought she was referring to Voldemort; Harry's own name had miraculously been left out of the numerous _Daily Prophet_ articles over the past couple of weeks, but the school had been afroth with speculation all the same.  Then he realised she was talking about Draco and narrowly avoided laughing in her face.  "Yeah, right.  In case it escaped your notice, Parkinson, he was on the verge of being expelled.  Trying to kill someone will do that for you."

"His father will arrange it all.  After all, everyone knows it was you who set him up."

Harry wondered if the incessant pureblood inbreeding had left her unbalanced.

"Everyone knows," he agreed dryly, "except the people who know the truth."  He ate the final bite of his tart and raised a brow at her.  "Obviously you're not one of the privileged few."

All the same, as he left the table there was a tiny niggle at the back of his mind.  Draco's father wouldn't find a way for him to return to Hogwarts – would he?

 **End Part 2/8**


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3/8**

"Sorry about the twenty points," Harry said to Ron later.  "And the detention."

They were in the library again, comparing the diagrams they'd drawn of the lock on the door into the Chamber of Secrets.  Hermione was there too; she had her nose buried in a large, dusty book about protective avatars (research for her own Charms paper for the NEWT), but she was clearly listening in, for every so often she would comment on something one of them said.

"It's all right," Ron replied, shrugging.  "Actually, I was surprised he didn't take fifty.  That'd be more like him.  What did he give you?"

Harry grimaced.  "A new schedule of Occlumency lessons."  He would rather have done Ron's detentions with Filch.

"That's quite a specialised subject," Hermione remarked, lifting her head for a moment.  "Not everyone can learn it."

"I know," Harry said gloomily.  "I'm one of the ones who can't."

"That can't be true or they wouldn't be bothering to teach you."

"Besides," Ron said, "you told me at Easter that you _could_ do it – it just doesn't always work.  Right?"

"Well yes, but – he's never really told me _how_ ," Harry burst out, frustrated.  "I've had to try and work it out as I go along, and every time I think I've got it, he manages to find a way past ….  I _hate_ it.  It's like having someone pick over a bunch of your private photos with sticky fingers.  He just grabs a memory and pulls it out – something really private or embarrassing -  and has a good laugh at it."

Ron looked worried at this.  He licked his lips nervously and said, "What do you mean, something private?"

Harry glanced up at him and felt himself redden.  "What do you think?  He hasn't – hasn't found anything about you yet, but it's like he knows there's something there and he's looking for it.  He was snooping on what we were doing down the tunnel today."  He grinned humourlessly.  "I smashed up half his workroom stopping him."

"Isn't there someone you could ask for help?" Ron asked anxiously.  "Or – or maybe there's a book!"   And he looked around at once, clearly meaning to ask Hermione, but to his surprise she wasn't there."Huh!  Where did she go?"




"Never mind," Harry said, a little relieved.  He wanted to get off this subject and Hermione's sudden absence gave him an opportunity to raise something else with his friend.  "I brought that book Sirius gave me.  Want to take a look?"

Ron's eyes nearly bugged out.  "What – _here?_ "

"Why not?  It's a library – nobody'll think it's weird that you're reading a book in here, especially if you hide it inside your Transfiguration textbook."

Doubtful but intrigued, Ron accepted the sturdy volume.  _"Enchanted Origami for Beginners?"_ he said, puzzled.

"Sorry …."  Harry waved his hand over it and the illusion vanished.  "That was Sirius's idea as well," he explained.  "It's better than having someone like Goyle find it."

"Can he even read?"

Harry swallowed a snigger.  "He wouldn't need to with _that!_ "

Ron gave him a nervous look and hastily hid the book behind his Transfiguration text.  Harry was even more amused to see how cautiously he opened the covers, but he needed to get on with his Charms work, so he left Ron to it and went back to poring over the diagrams.  He was just trying to decide if it would be worth the risk of making another trip to the Chamber of Secrets when Ron quite audibly gasped.

 _"Harry!"_

"Keep your voice down!" he hissed.  Whether the book was hidden or not, they didn't need another visit from the Head Girl.

Ron's ears were very red and his eyes huge when he looked over the top of the book.  "Harry, the pictures _move!_ "

Harry tried not to laugh.  "Well, yeah!  Wizard pictures do that, you prat."

"Yes, but …."  Ron was reduced to pointing, utterly speechless at what he was seeing.

Harry gave up on his essay and slid across the bench seat to see what his friend was looking at.  Ah … yes … that one.  He'd wondered about that drawing himself, to the point where he'd barely stopped himself from adding a line to his letter home: _Is Position No. 63 even possible?_   He wasn't sure he wanted an answer to that - not from Sirius or Remus, anyway.

"Is it the right way up?" Ron ventured in a whisper, and he turned the book on its side, squinting.  The two line drawings stopped what they were doing to glare at him.  "Okay, maybe it is," he mumbled, straightening the book again.  "Harry, you don't – you don't want to try this, do you?"

Harry squinted at the picture again.  "Um, no.  I mean, I'm pretty fit but I think I'd have to be a contortionist to do that."

Ron looked relieved and began to flick through the pages.  The next ten minutes were spent largely in silence, punctuated by the occasional incoherent comment.

"That looks …."

"…Yeah …."

"Um …."

"Do you think …?"

"Oh … oh wow."

"What on earth are the two of you reading?"

Ron and Harry leapt nearly a foot into the air, and books and papers went flying.  Hermione was standing at the end of the table, arms full of books, astonishment written across her face.

"Ron, you look like an overripe strawberry," she said accusingly, and she dumped her books on the table.  Her voice dropped warningly.  "You'd better not be looking at one of Seamus's disgusting magazines in here.  Madam Pince will have a fit if she finds out."

The book had disappeared.  Harry looked around anxiously for it and to his alarm realised that it had ended up on the floor not far from Hermione's feet.  He dived after it just as she saw it and bent to pick it up; her fingers got there first and it was whipped out of his reach.

"This isn't a school book – "

In desperation he whispered the charm from a distance and faded gilt lettering appeared on the cover.  Hermione tilted it towards the light and frowned.

 _"Erotic Origami For House-Elves?"_ she said in disbelief.

Oh no ….  Harry gathered his dignity and stood up.

"Actually, that's wrong," he said coolly, and he brushed his fingers across the cover, changing it back to the title Sirius had given it.  He met her wide eyes.  "Sorry about that."

"That's a Concealment Charm!" she said accusingly.

"That's right."  He tried to take the book from her, but she jerked it out of his reach.

"Just what kind of book is this, Potter, and why are you disguising it?"

"Hermione!" Ron protested, but she ignored him.

Taking another step back, she banished the charm and opened the book at random, looking down at the pages.  Ron swallowed audibly. 

The book seemed to bulge … and a hand reached out of the pages to tweak her nose.  _"Nosy Parker!"_ a singsong voice said cheerfully.  The hand vanished and the book's covers snapped shut again.

Hermione was speechless; Harry took advantage of her astonishment to reach out and take the book back, wondering as he did so if he was the only one to have recognised the voice as Remus Lupin's.  How had his godfather managed that?

"It was a present from my guardians," he explained blandly, and he quickly stowed it back in his book bag. 

"Well … whatever it is," Hermione managed, recovering herself a little, "you obviously shouldn't be reading it here!"

Harry nodded sardonically.  "You're right.  I shouldn't be reading books in the library – _definitely_ against the rules."

For a moment he thought she might rise to the bait, but she bit her lip and visibly got a grip on herself.

"God help you if Madam Pince finds it," was all she said.

"What – you don't want to see the look on her face when she gets her nose tweaked?"

"It's not the look on her face I'll be worrying about!"  But there was the tiniest hint of a smile lurking in the girl's eyes.  She began to sort through her new stack of books.  "There's almost nothing in the racks about mental defences," she continued after a moment, surprising him, "and I don't have a current pass to the Restricted Section, but if you look on page forty-six of _this_ , I think there's something there that you might find helpful.  And I can't _believe_ there's only one paragraph about Occlumency in any of the books I found …."

She was off, muttering about esoteric defence systems and the inadequacies of the Ministry's Education Department.  Harry accepted the book, bemused, and looked at Ron.  The redhead only quirked a brow and gave him a tiny grin.

Damn.  Now he owed Hermione Granger a favour.

 

xXx

 

The rest of his dorm-mates were asleep, but Harry had cast a Silencing Charm on his bed curtains just in case.  It was routine for him since the start of his fifth year; one screaming nightmare about Cedric Diggory had woken the entire dormitory and he learned his lesson.

His blankets were littered with parchment and books.  Harry hardly knew which to pick up first and was beginning to wonder if he needed to create himself a revision planner, as he had before his OWLs.  For a moment he had a flashback to the uncomfortable Christmas at Black Manor that year, with Remus and Sirius coming and going while he tried to revise and take his mind off the horror of the vision of Ron's father being attacked.  Apart from a couple of hours over dinner on Christmas Day, he hadn't seen the two of them together at all during that holiday, but at one point Sirius – Sirius of all people! – had seen him struggling and had paused to sketch out a basic revision planner for him, one which had been much more efficient than the one printed in his exercise book.  Harry couldn't remember now if he'd thanked his godfather for the tip.

Finally, he made a decision and shuffled all the Charms papers together and put them to one side.  He'd been working on that all day, after all.  He found Sirius's book on transformation and made himself read the introduction and first chapter.  Then he picked up the piece of parchment he'd copied Hermione's information on Occlumency onto and made himself read that too until he thought he understood it. 

At last he put all his books and papers away and put out the light, settling back against his pillows.

It was very quiet in the dormitory.  This variation of the Silencing Charm allowed him to block sound emanating from the area around his bed without preventing him hearing what was going on around him (a vital detail when one shared a room with people like Vincent Crabbe).  At the far end of the room Theodore Nott snorted and muttered in his sleep; there was a heavy rustle as Blaise turned over.

Harry strove to clear his mind.  It wasn't easy; not thinking about anything before sleep was a surprisingly unrestful activity.  The mind preferred to wind down naturally and gently, rather than abruptly and with force.  Pages from the Animagi book danced behind Harry's closed eyelids; he pushed them firmly away.  An image of Ron's cherry-red face as he looked at the sex manual swam to the front of his mind.  Harry swallowed his amusement and banished the image.

The book Hermione had found said that a skilled Occlumens was able to make his mind _"like the surface of a mirror, all reflection and no depth"_.  It hadn't explained why, but Harry assumed that this allowed someone practising Occlumency to reflect an intruding mind without permitting it to penetrate beyond a very surface level.  He wasn't sure if he had the ability to maintain both innocuous surface thoughts _and_ some kind of reflective shield simultaneously, but if he could – well, Harry thought he could see the potential in that.

He just wished Snape had explained this in the beginning.  They might both have got a lot further if he had.  In the meantime –

His scar prickled.

 - In the meantime, he thought grimly, it might be better to focus on one element or the other and learn to do that well before he tried juggling both at once.  With that in mind, he focussed on letting go of his thoughts, replacing them with a smooth, reflective surface which would, he hoped, repel any attempt by Voldemort to enter his mind that night.

 

xXx

 

The breeze at the top of the North Tower was pretty stiff, but Hermione had pinned all their books and papers down with a Temporary Sticking Charm and was currently testing the strength of her Aversion Charms by erecting an odd little invisible wall to keep the worst of the wind off the two of them.  Ron was rather impressed, but determined not to administer to her vanity by saying so.

"Thanks for showing Harry that book last night," he said, when she had satisfied herself that the wall was as strong as she could make it.

"He already thanked me himself," Hermione replied dryly, "but you're welcome all the same.  It would be nice, though, to find the pair of you revising for once, instead of reading smut.  And I'm staggered that his _guardians,_ of all people, gave him that book.  Especially Professor Lupin."

Ron was fairly sure that this was a shot drawn at venture; Harry said she wouldn't have been able to see anything once his Concealment Charm was in place.  It wasn't such a surprise that she had recognised Professor Lupin's voice though.  Ron himself didn't claim to know the man at all, other than from the few occasions he had met him after his short tenure as Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts during their third year, but during the long, rather miserable summer they had spent at the Order of the Phoenix's headquarters in number twelve Grimmauld Place, he had seen both Lupin and Sirius Black come and go quite a lot and Hermione, far less diffident than Ron, had dogged his footsteps at every opportunity.  Access to a teacher during the summer holidays had, in her view, been an opportunity not to be squandered.

Harry had been at Black Manor for the summer, of course, and there had been some talk about that between the adults, as Fred and George had overheard through their Extendible Ears.  The situation had necessitated a shift rotation between Black and Lupin, so that one of them had been with him at all times, which had caused some awkwardness with other members of the Order.  There had been a feeling, even among the more softly-spoken members, that it would have saved some effort if they'd just brought Harry to stay in Grimmauld Place with the Weasleys and Hermione.

"Not that we want the little Slytherin git here," George had concluded at the time.

Ron wondered now if anything would have changed had Harry spent that summer with them instead of on his own.  It was a moot point, of course; there had never been any chance of Harry joining them in Grimmauld Place.  Arrangements for him had, as always, been agreed with Dumbledore and Dumbledore's word was final.

"Ron?"

He looked up at Hermione and seeing the questioning look on her face, answered her original remark in the hope that it would stave off any questions.

"I reckon Mr. Black and Professor Lupin know what they're doing with Harry," he said gruffly.

"Hm.  I wonder."  She gave him another beady look, then shrugged and picked up a small penknife to trim her quill.  "Anyway, anything we can do has to be a help."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean … since Harry has this prophecy to deal with, we should all try our best to help him out.  Instead of hindering him, like Mr. Fudge and his people seem determined to do."

Ron twitched.  "The prophecy?"

"Of course.  Has he talked to you about that at all?"

"No."  Ron looked away. 

He and Hermione knew about the prophecy only because Neville had told them about it; Neville himself had been told about his own near-starring role by Dumbledore just before the end of term the previous year.  But Harry didn't talk about it, although a couple of oblique comments he had made showed that he knew the details of it only too well.

"It can't be very nice for him," Hermione remarked rather prosaically.  "Knowing he has no choice except to kill someone."

"You reckon?" 

Ron thought the problem went deeper than that.  The few times the subject had been touched upon, albeit in a very roundabout way, he got the impression that Harry's problems lay more with the people he was supposed to save.  Which wasn't unreasonable when you took account of how everyone treated him; Fred and George's attitude, for example, was just the tip of the iceberg.

"When you come back to earth, maybe you'll tell me what's bothering you."

Ron's head jerked up.  "Sorry," he muttered, embarrassed.  "I'm just … thinking."

"You've been doing a lot of that lately," Hermione said, and he could hear the concern in her voice.  "Is this about … I mean, are you …."

"Am I _what?_   Just spit it out!"

"I just wondered if this is about … what you two did at Easter," she said, red-faced.  "I mean – it's a big thing, isn't it?"

Ron was genuinely surprised.  "No, it's not about that."

"Oh."

"Why would it be about that?"

"I don't know!"

"Why do you keep harping on about that anyway?  It's not like we're doing it all the time.  Chance would be a fine thing," he added rather bitterly.

"You shouldn't have done it in the first place," she muttered.

"So you keep saying, but in case you hadn't noticed, neither of us has died or gone mad or grown hair on our palms because of it – "

"That's not the point, Ron!" Hermione snapped.

"So what _is_ the point?" he demanded.  "And don't start going on about him being underage again.  If I had a Galleon for every person who lost their cherry before they were supposed to be old enough – "

"If you must know, I think that this is just experimentation for you," Hermione interrupted angrily, her voice shaking a little.  "I think it's probably just a phase and you'll change your mind about – things - when you're older and you've seen more.  So wouldn't it be better if you backed away a little before you can't get yourself out without hurting him _and_ you?"

"What the hell?"  Ron was staggered and affronted.  "Better for who?  Me?  Harry?  Or would it just be better for _you?_ "

He only said it to shut her up.  What he didn't expect was to score a direct hit.  Hermione flushed a miserable crimson and her eyes flooded with tears.

"Oh shit," Ron muttered, and he sat down next to her on the parapet abruptly.  "I'm sorry.  I never thought … and you never said anything."

She shook her head frantically.  "It's not - not like that.  Not the way you think."

"Then what is it?  I thought … I thought you didn't mind.  When I started seeing Harry you seemed to be okay about it, and it's not like we ever - "

"It's not like _that_ ," Hermione repeated, interrupting him.  She sniffed a little, but she was back in control again.  "Not like you think – or only a _little_ bit.  It's just that … we've been friends for so long.  And then suddenly I can be sitting next to you in class but it's like you're a thousand miles away, and outside of classes I never see you anymore.  Not unless I make a nuisance of myself.  So it's - it's hard not to hate him a little."  She sniffled again, and added indignantly, "Especially when he's being such a little pig!  Honestly, Ron, he was always so quiet, ignoring people - I had no idea he could be so - so _bratty!_ "

Ron grinned ruefully.  "Yeah, I know!  But to be fair, I think he's only like that to you because he's a bit jealous too."

She groaned and they both laughed a little.  Ron fished a clean handkerchief out of his pocket for her, and she took it with muttered thanks.

"This is so stupid!" she declared, when she'd blown her nose, but she looked a little more cheerful.  "I'm _not_ jealous of him, really I'm not, I'd just like a chance to say hello to you without him glaring at me!"

"I'll talk to him," Ron said, and he made a face.  "That'll be fun."

"You don't have to," Hermione said firmly.  "I'm perfectly capable of dealing with him – "

There was a sudden _swoosh_ and Harry was there, hovering next to the two of them on his broomstick.  Ron took a moment to look wistfully at the Firebolt, which Harry had been flying for nearly three years, before transferring his gaze to his friend's face.  Judging by Harry's grin, he knew exactly what Ron was thinking.

"How's it going?" Ron asked him.  Slytherin was holding try-outs for replacement Beaters; Higgs had thrown Crabbe and Goyle off the team in disgust after their disastrous performance during the last match before Easter.

Harry shrugged.  "Pretty hopeless so far, so you could be in with a chance next time around."  When Ron grinned, he raised a brow.  "I said a _chance_ , Weasley.  You'll need more than that to win the cup!"

"Yeah, yeah!"

Harry turned his attention to Hermione.  "Just thought I'd mention, Granger – I spoke to Professor Flitwick this morning."

She looked confused.  "Really?"

"Yes.  He says he had a letter from Remus at the beginning of term, so we have permission to use the printing press."  He tilted his head to one side for a moment.  "That is, if you're still interested?"

Hermione was speechless with surprise.

 **End Part 3/8**


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4/8**

 ****There wasn't time during the week to investigate the store-room where the printer was kept, so the three of them agreed to meet up the following Saturday to look at it.  Harry didn't give it much thought beyond that; he was far too busy.

So it came as a distinct surprise to him when, early on Saturday morning, he was waylaid on his way to breakfast by Dobby the House-elf, with a message that he was go straight to the Headmaster's office.

The last time Harry had received a summons like that, it had been to face a near-inquisition about Ron's accident on the kitchen stairs, so it wasn't unreasonable for him to feel a little nervous as he hurried down the corridor to where the two gargoyles guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's sanctum. 

"Liquorice wands," he said, and the gargoyles leapt aside to allow him onto the revolving staircase.

But when he finally pushed the door open in response to a cheery "Come in!", it was to find Dumbledore taking breakfast with … Remus Lupin.

Lupin chuckled when he saw Harry's expression.

"It's all right, you're not in trouble!"

"But why are you here?" Harry demanded, when he had given his godfather the hug both his guardians seemed to expect from him these days.

"If you want to use my old printing press, we first need to get some supplies for it and then we actually have to put it back together," Lupin said, a little amused.  "It was disassembled for transport and storage.  And after that, I have to teach you how to safely use it."

"It's not me, it's Granger," Harry grumbled.  He followed Dumbledore's gesture and took a seat at the small table in front of the fireplace.  The teapot poured him a cup of tea and the toast-rack and marmalade jar waddled to his plate hospitably.  "She wants to run a school newspaper."

Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling.  "An energetic young woman, our Miss Granger."

"Hermione Granger?  Yes – I well remember her enthusiasm," Lupin commented.  "I'm surprised she has time to run a newspaper as well as everything else, though.  Isn't she a prefect?"

"She thinks I have plenty of time because I'm not," Harry said sourly.

"Well, there are worse things you could be doing in your spare time."

"Like my Charms dissertation?"

Lupin's lips twitched.  "That reminds me …."  He rummaged in his robes and pulled out a heavy book with a leather cover that had been moulded to resemble the door of a vault.  "I believe you asked to borrow this?"

"Oh brilliant!  Thanks, Remus."

"You will find that a more profitable source of information than your other line of enquiry," Dumbledore put in, looking at Harry over the top of his spectacles.

Harry coloured.  He had forgotten that Snape would probably tell the Headmaster about his foray into the Chamber of Secrets.

After breakfast, Harry and Lupin set off for Hogsmeade.  It wasn't a Hogsmeade weekend, but Lupin had secured a privileged pass from the Headmaster for Harry which Harry himself was very pleased about; aside from anything else, the town wouldn't be full of Hogwarts pupils which meant less pushing and shoving in the shops.  Being forced to wear his school uniform on a Saturday was a small price to pay.

"There's a printers' warehouse in the town," Lupin told him.  "They mostly supply the _Hogsmeade Herald_ , but they also provide materials for smaller scale printers.  I'll make you known to the proprietor and if you have any minor mechanical problems, you can ask him for advice.  It'll save time, as I might not be able to come up here at short notice."

Harry studied his tranquil face warily.  "Is there any news about that new werewolf law?" he asked.  "I've been reading the _Prophet_ but it isn't always reliable, is it?"

"I wouldn't worry about that for now, if I were you," Lupin told him calmly.  "That Bill's unlikely to go before the Wizengamot before the end of the summer.  The Ministry has other fish to fry at the moment."

"Voldemort?"

"Not in so many words, but yes – Voldemort.  The Ministry are still maintaining official denial about the attack on Diagon Alley, you know, in spite of what even the _Prophet_ prints."

"How many times does he have to pop up and kill someone before they'll take any notice?" Harry demanded, incredulous.

Lupin smiled.  "They're taking notice, Harry, they just don't want to admit it until they feel they're in some kind of control of the situation – in a position of strength, you might say.  Until then – "

"I'm still just an hysterical kid telling lies to get attention!"

"Not to the Order, Harry.  Never to the Order."

Harry made a grumpy sound in his throat and kicked at a stone on the pavement.  He didn't place much reliance upon the good will of the Order of the Phoenix if the truth were told. 

Lupin tucked a hand through his arm.  "Come on, let's not spoil a Saturday morning," he coaxed.  "Since Sirius isn't here, I'm relying on you to buy me a chocolate éclair in Madam Puddifoot's."

Harry looked at him and grinned reluctantly.  "I'll buy you a chocolate éclair, but does it have to be in Madam Puddifoot's?  I got dumped by Cho in there once."

"I think that's par for the course – I expect your mother dumped your father in there at least once."

Harry snorted.  "Quiggle's Café does éclairs."

"Lead the way," Lupin said at once.

 

xXx

 

Hermione's eyes lit up when two of them arrived back at the castle, weighed down with supplies of paper and ink.

"Professor Lupin!"

"You know, Hermione, I haven't actually been a professor in nearly three years," Lupin told her cheerfully.  "I think you can call me Remus these days without ending up in detention for it.  Hello, Ron - how's your term going?"

The redhead grinned at him.  "Not bad, sir."

"'Sir' makes me feel old," Lupin complained as he dropped the box he was carrying into a corner of the store-room and lit the lights with a wave of his wand.  "I'm not _that_ geriatric, whatever the grey hair might make you think."  He paused, hands on hips, looking over the enormous crate in the middle of the room.  "Well, let's get it unboxed and put back together."

For all his protestations, Harry noticed that at least part of Lupin remained a teacher.  As they unpacked, cleaned and assembled each part of the printing press, he kept up a constant flow of quiet talk, asking them all questions about their classes and offering in the most unobtrusive way little snippets of advice about everything from their assignments to problems they were having with other pupils.  As Hermione was involved, Harry tried to stay a little aloof from this conversation although with mixed success.  Lupin knew him a little too well now to let him get away with it entirely.

Once the press (which, though smaller than the one Harry had seen in the basement at Black Manor, was nevertheless quite a size) was assembled, Lupin gave them a comprehensive lesson in how to use it safely.  They had a dry run which was quite successful, and he stepped back, wiping his hands on an old rag and looking pleased.

"I think you can safely be left to get on with it now," he remarked, gracing them with a smile.  "Any ideas how you're going to run this newspaper?  Lily and I found it easier to get a few other people involved in the journalism side … although that did mean we spent rather a lot of time correcting other people's spelling mistakes and grammar."

"I've already sounded out a few people," Hermione said.  "Padma Patil was quite interested and Luna Lovegood was asking a while ago."

"Laurence Lovegood's daughter?  She certainly has the background for it."

"Not quite the style I was looking for though," Hermione muttered, and Lupin grinned. 

"Oh, I don't know.  For all his strange ideas, every once in a while Laurie hits the jackpot.  Anyway, that's your problem I'm afraid!  Just a word or two of advice, Hermione - "

"Sir?"

"Exercise a little caution in what you print," he told her, and his face was suddenly grave.  "The temptation is to be radical in the material you produce, to whip up the readers' interest.  But try to steer clear of commentary on the Ministry if you can - that's a fast track to getting yourself closed down."

Hermione blinked.  "But - "

"No buts, Hermione.  Leave that sort of thing to people who know what they're doing.  I don't want to see you get suspended because of something as trivial as a school newspaper.  And while we're on the subject …."  Lupin paused and glanced at Harry.  "I don't know how much involvement Harry intends to have in this project, but I must insist that there are no stories about him, with his agreement or otherwise."

Hermione's mouth opened in protest - and shut again at the look on her former professor's face.

"I'm sorry, but I absolutely _must_ insist," he said firmly.  "A lot of effort has been put into keeping his name out of the newspapers recently, particularly in connection with certain incidents.  Not only would a school magazine article be extremely risky in its own right, it would make a nonsense of all our efforts to protect him from intrusive journalism.  It won't be me or the headmaster you'll have to deal with then - it'll be Sirius Black, as Harry's guardian, and he isn't nearly so polite as we are."

Hermione looked disappointed, but she agreed.  And although he took care to remain neutral in this discussion, Harry himself was relieved.  He got enough negative attention from his classmates, without a school newspaper making things worse.

"Well then, I'll leave you to it."  Lupin picked up his cloak and looked at Harry.  "See me down the gates, Harry?"

"Thanks for coming up here," Harry said, as they walked down the main staircase to the great front doors.  "I wasn't expecting you to."

"You'd have a hard time keeping me away," Lupin chuckled.  "Now, I believe I have a few messages from Sirius for you."  He tilted his head back, pretending to think.  "Ah yes - firstly, he says to tell you that the key to exploring hidden passages in the castle is not to get caught."

Harry sighed.  "Did Dumbledore tell you we went into the Chamber of Secrets?"

"No, we had a lovely letter from Professor Snape about it.  Sirius wants to have it framed.  I have no idea whether Ron's mother got one too though - "

"He hasn't said anything about getting a Howler from her," Harry said dryly.

"Probably not then.  That was message number one, anyway.  Number two - Sirius asked if you've read the transfiguration book he left in your trunk yet."

"I only found it last weekend!" Harry said indignantly.  "It's huge!  And I've been trying to do my Charms essay - "

"Tut!" Lupin said, the corners of his mouth curling into a grin.  "You're going to have to try harder if you want to keep up with the big boys!"  He ignored Harry's spluttering.  "Finally, he wants to know if you and Ron have got up to anything disgraceful with the _other_ book he gave you, and if not - why not?"

"We were wondering if position sixty-three is physically possible," Harry retorted, as blandly as he could manage.

His godfather was unfazed.  "Very possible," he said cheerfully.  "In fact, all the positions are possible - with a bit of practice!"

He laughed at the look on Harry's face.

 

xXx

 

The weeks that followed were so busy that Harry forgot about the press and Hermione's newspaper entirely.  His time, when not in classes, seemed to be consumed by Quidditch practice, homework, his Charms dissertation and reading Sirius's book on the Animagus transformation.  He even found himself reading Lupin's book about goblin locks at the breakfast table one morning, something he hadn't done since his OWLs.

His Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape seemed to be going a little better as well, he thought, although really the only way to judge that was by the level of effort the Potions Master was having to put into breaking into his mind.  Snape was still breaching Harry's mental shields with perhaps every third attempt, but like Harry himself he sweated rivers by the end of each half-hour lesson, and Harry took this as a good sign in spite of a lack of any kind of praise from him.

Hermione caught up with him one Saturday afternoon, just as he was leaving the Quidditch changing rooms.  Harry forbore to comment on the fact that she had obviously been lying in wait for him outside the Slytherin part of the changing block, but it took an effort.

"I've been designing a flyer for the newspaper," she said, falling in step with him as he shouldered his kitbag and broom.

"Good for you," he replied shortly, wondering why she had come all the way down here just to tell him that.

"I thought if it was printed tonight, we could start distributing it in the library tomorrow.  Everyone will be in there, studying.  It's the ideal time."

"So go for it."

Hermione gave him a perplexed look.  "Aren't you going to help?"

Harry shot her a look.  "I got you access to the press, and Remus came up here to show you how to use it.  What more do you want?"

She looked taken aback.  "But I thought you were going to help!"

"Nope.  I've got too much other stuff on my plate."

His offhand tone irritated her; her voice sharpened.

"So have we all, Potter, and some of us are prefects, but – "

"You just _had_ to slip that in, didn't you?"  He snorted, amused.  "I know you're a prefect, Granger, you don't have to keep ramming it down my throat.  What are you planning to do if I _don't_ help you with this precious newspaper of yours?  Take points?"

"Don't be ridiculous!  I just think that since you don't have such a heavy timetable – "

"Know that for sure?"  Harry stopped in the middle of the path, amusement turning to aggravation, and faced her.  "Got privileged access to my schedule, do you?"

" _Have you_ , not _do you_ ," she corrected him tartly, "and if that's a reference to Ron – "

"You leave Ron out of this.  You don't know the half of what they've got me doing, so butt out.  If you want to run this thing, go for it, but you're on your own, understand?"

Harry started back up the path, not waiting to see if she followed.

"Fine!" she called after him angrily, "but I think your godfather will be very disappointed!"

"Won't be the first time," he called back.

 _What is it with her?_ he wondered a short while after, when he was sitting in one of the private study cubicles in the library and staring at his books blankly.  She just had to keep pushing, no matter how often Harry showed her that he didn't want her friendship or understanding or whatever it was she seemed determined to foist onto him.  Right now, the last thing he felt he needed was to spend several hours a week in a stuffy storage room with her, some noisy machinery and a lot of badly-written articles about the next school Gobstones championship.

The door to the cubicle opened and a shadow fell across his books: Ron.  The redhead walked inside and pushed Harry's pile of books and parchment to the back of the table so he could perch on the edge.  He looked at Harry and sighed exaggeratedly.

"You know, it's a bloody good thing I'm fond of you, Potter, because you're a grumpy, contentious git who makes my other friends cry."

Harry started guiltily.  "Is she really?  Because I didn't – "

"I was talking about Neville."

He saw Ron's sly grin and returned it reluctantly.

"I don't remember the last time I saw Longbottom outside of class, so you can't blame that one on me!"

"Nah, he's not really.  Nev's a sport in his own way.  Though if you see a toad anywhere, grab it and give it back to him, will you?  Trevor got out again last night."

"He'd better hope Snape doesn't find it first, or it could end up in a tank with that cobra of his," Harry remarked, trying not to shudder.  It was one thing to feed a snake an anonymous mouse, but something that was a pet and had a name was a different matter.

Ron was looking at him curiously.  "It's funny - I would have thought a Parselmouth would like snakes."

"Depends on the snake.  The harmless ones and some of the boas are okay.  I'm not much on cobras, though.  It's like talking to … I don't know, someone who doesn't care that you exist, maybe."

"Like – You Know Who?"

Harry looked at the other youth. 

"Not really," he said after a moment.  "Voldemort might be twisted and sick, but he still thinks and talks like a person.  A cobra talks to a human like a human talks to a cockroach before they step on it.  In fact one of the Parseltongue words for 'human' means 'soft-scale', which is the snake equivalent of calling you an arsehole."

Ron looked rather disconcerted by this, so Harry changed the subject.

"I take it Granger whinged about me saying I wouldn't help with her newspaper?"

"She's pretty pissed off," Ron agreed.  He studied Harry's defensive face for a moment.  "Look, mate, would it hurt you to be nice to her once in a while?"

"I _have_ been nice to her," Harry muttered.  "I got her access to the printing press, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but …."  Ron's face screwed up for a moment.  "It's not the same thing.  You dole out stuff like that as though - as though you're balancing accounts or something."  He saw Harry's face and said rather defensively, "Well, you _do_.  She found you a book on Occlumency, so you got her access to the printing press.  Which is good of you, but it's not exactly friendly.  More like trade."

Harry didn't really know what to say to this. 

"Well … that's what friends do, isn't it?  You do them a favour and they do you one back."

It was probably a good thing Sirius Black couldn't hear Harry saying this; it would have upset him very much.  Ron was having enough trouble with it as it was.

"Um - that's not what I'd call friendship, Harry," he said, hoping he didn't look as appalled as he felt.  Something else occurred to him.  "Friends don't do stuff for each other because they owe something.  I mean – that's not what it's like with you and me, is it?"

Harry blinked.  "Well, no, but that's _different,_ " he said, as though this fact should be obvious.  "I can't think of anything Granger could do for me that would make me give her a blow-job, for a start."

"Is that how you see sex?" he asked unsteadily.  "As a trade-off for something else?"

Harry finally recognised that he'd said something badly wrong.

"No," he replied, after a moment.  He shifted in his seat uncomfortably.  "Like I said, that's different.  We're friends, aren't we?"

"Yeah, but I thought we were more than that.  Aren't we?"

"Well, yes.  We're …."  Harry stopped.  The word on the tip of his tongue was _lovers_ , but he was sixteen years old and however true it might be, it was not a word he felt comfortable using.  "We're much more than that," he finished lamely, after an appreciable pause.

It wasn't the answer Ron was looking for, and Harry could tell just from looking at his face.  But he didn't know what to say to him … especially when he didn't fully understand what was wrong in the first place. 

He took a deep breath, intending to say something, _anything_ , no matter how stupid, when a black ball the size of his closed fist sailed gently through the small gap between the half-closed door and the frame.  It landed on the edge of the desk between them with a dull thump and Harry had just long enough to realise what it was.

 _"Dungbomb!_ "

Ron threw himself off the desk and Harry himself had just enough time to throw an arm in front of his face before it exploded.  It went off with an echoing bang, filling the enclosed space with black, foul-smelling splatters.

Harry didn't wait for the muck to settle.  He snatched up his wand and shot out of the cubicle, ignoring the sudden uproar in the library as he went in pursuit of a figure fleeing through the shadowy racks at the back of the facility.  It was impossible to tell who it was, but Harry didn't need a name – he snapped off a Bat-Bogey Hex (a pleasing little spell that he'd learned from watching Ron's sister in a kerfuffle the previous year) and was delighted to hear a muffled shriek as the hex landed, although it didn't stop his target running.

It wasn't as though the culprit could hide the effects, though; Harry would catch up with him or her later.  Satisfied, he retraced his steps to the cubicle –

\- only to find Ron gone and Madam Pince waiting for him with a face like a Norse battle goddess.

 

xXx

 

The week that followed was hideous.  Harry was used to feeling that his life was a mess and he might not survive long enough to see his final leaving feast, but this was different.  He had got used to Ron being there since the beginning of March; to having Ron to talk to and share things with and just _be_ with.

But suddenly Ron wasn't talking to him and this wasn't like it had been before, when the Gryffindor had simply ignored him or treated him like another Slytherin.  This time the silence was stiff and hurtful and full of miserable confusion.  To make matters worse, Harry still didn't know what exactly he'd done wrong, let alone how to right it again.

For the dungbomb in the library he received a week's detention (a piece of injustice that made him seethe) and the Bat-Bogey Hex lost Slytherin twenty points.  The real culprit had been Theodore Nott, who spent a day in the infirmary when Harry refused to lift the hex from him.  For that he lost another ten points, but he considered all thirty well-spent when he heard about the potions Madam Pomfrey was forcing Nott to take to alleviate his skin condition.

But that was not the full extent of his problems.

Two things exercised his mind as he shovelled manure in Hagrid's hippogriff barn over the following week; the situation with Ron and the situation with his Housemates in Slytherin.

Things had generally been quiet in Slytherin since Draco Malfoy had left.  Harry hadn't expected it to last, but Theo Nott's ill-timed dungbomb had been the start of a campaign of aggravation against Harry which had caught him off-guard with its speed and ferocity.  Even when Malfoy had been around, things had mostly been limited to posturing and the occasional magical face-off, but this was different - now he could count on constant jostling, at least one theft or instance of destruction of his belongings a day, and the constant threat of curses when his back was turned.

It wasn't all of Slytherin by any means.  Most of them were still sitting on the fence, waiting to see who emerged as the natural leader at the end of term.  But the handful involved (almost all of them Pansy Parkinson's cronies) were making life very uncomfortable for Harry.  It wasn't in the nature of the other Slytherins to back him up unless he made a deliberate and decisive bid for power himself, and that was something he refused to do.

And on top of this, there was still all his studies to get through, Quidditch practices (with an even more hostile captain and team), Occlumency with Professor Snape, his private studies into the Animagus transformation, and … Ron wasn't speaking to him.

All in all, it wasn't terribly surprising when something gave way under the pressure.

 **End Part 4/8**


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 5/8**

"I think, Harry, that it is time you came out."

The tone was calm and kindly, as Hagrid's had also been a while ago, but Harry still felt no inclination to leave his refuge.  After a moment or two, Professor Dumbledore's crooked nose and half-moon spectacles hove into view as the headmaster bent to inspect his hiding place.  There was a long silence as he took in the cramped conditions; the low, sloping ceiling, the pipes in the corner, the tatty, sagging Z-Bed Harry was curled up on. 

Had Harry been at all on his usual form, he would have noticed a slight tightening of the elderly professor's lips.  But Harry was far from his usual self and failed to register this tiny sign of Dumbledore's dismay. 

Verbal urgings he could have ignored, but a firm hand under his elbow was a different matter.  He slowly uncurled himself and with Dumbledore's assistance crept out of the cupboard under the stairs.

"There!" Hagrid said in a kindly voice that utterly failed to conceal his anxiety.  "Tha's better …."

Dumbledore swung the cupboard door shut and watched with interest as it gently merged with the stone wall of the hut until it had completely vanished.

"Curious!" he remarked.  He turned to Harry and inspected his hands carefully.  "I think a visit to Madam Pomfrey is in order," he said, as though such shocking burns were an everyday occurrence.  When Harry made no reply, but stared into nothing, he added, "Hagrid, I think it would be better if Harry doesn't walk back to the school.  If you would - ?"

"O' course, o' course …."  Hagrid swung the boy up into his arms as though he weighed no more than a cushion.  "Not the first time I done this, by any means!  Mind, you was a sight smaller the last time, eh, 'Arry?"

There was a small cluster of pupils at the main entrance when they got there.  The majority were senior prefects who had been summoned out of their classes to assist in the search for Harry, but a few were students who happened to be passing and stopped to gawk.  A couple of the professors were also there, trying to hurry the rubberneckers along, but it wasn't until Dumbledore himself commanded everyone to go about their business that the crowd began to dissipate, all eagerly discussing the event as Hagrid carried Harry up the great staircase.

"Headmaster – "  Professor Snape appeared, moving against the flow of pupils.  "Where was he?"

"He appeared in Hagrid's house a short while ago, but the details must wait, Severus," Dumbledore replied.  "I must speak to Madam Pomfrey first.  Will you go to my office and contact Mr. Potter's godparents?  I will join you shortly."

 

xXx

 

"What do you mean, _he picked up a boiling cauldron with his bare hands?_   What the devil was going on that he would do something like that?"

"Black, if I understood his motivations we would not be standing here now – "

"Oh, that's a good one!  What have you ever cared about Harry's motivations?"

"If, for once, you would – "

"Good evening, gentlemen," Dumbledore said, rather more sharply than usual, and a sudden silence fell in his office. 

Snape was standing to once side of the fireplace, his face sallow and his expression sourer than ever.  He looked furious; something he shared with Sirius Black, whose disembodied head was perched in the green flames of the fire

Dumbledore joined Snape beside the fire, giving Sirius a cool but courteous nod.  "Sirius."

"Headmaster," Sirius replied curtly.  "I'd appreciate an explanation – preferably one that doesn't involve defamation of my godson's character in the process."  He shot Snape a nasty look.

The headmaster ignored this.

"I regret having to contact you under such unfortunate circumstances," he said.  "You will be relieved to know that Harry is resting comfortably in the infirmary.  Poppy Pomfrey informs me that although there was some delay in treating his injuries, she believes there will be no permanent damage to his hands."

Sirius's face relaxed in relief for a moment.  "Thank heavens for that."

"Quite."

"Snape said he went to Hagrid?" he asked.  "I don't understand, why would he leave the castle when he was injured?"

"Hagrid _found_ Harry," Dumbledore corrected him.  "How Harry got there was another matter entirely."  He glanced at Snape, who was listening with one hand resting on the mantelpiece.  "I believe the two of you were familiar with the Room of Requirement when you were pupils here?  Well, there are a number of other such rooms around the castle, one of which has the rather odd property of transporting its occupant to the place where they most need to be when they emerge.  Its choices can be … somewhat idiosyncratic, however.  Harry has been serving detentions with Hagrid all week, so it would appear that the room decided he should be deposited in Hagrid's hut.  Rather unexpected, I must say – I had no notion it could leave the castle proper in such a way.  But then, I had no idea it could change its internal properties either."

Sirius looked perplexed.

"Are you saying that after this accident Harry just walked into a room that transported him to Hagrid's?" he asked.

"He only emerged after a period of some hours," Dumbledore noted, "so there is a question mark over whether he was in the room all along.  I am also curious to know why it assumed the characteristics it did.  I am unsure of a great many things at this point, but possibly Harry will clarify matters in due course.  In the meantime I believe, Severus, that you have informed Sirius of the details of the accident?"

"I know _what_ happened," Sirius said irritably in response to this, "but I'm still far from clear _why._ "

"Potter has been sullen and confrontational all week.  _More_ sullen and confrontational than usual, I should say," Snape added, glancing at Sirius with a curled lip.  "Something occurred - an altercation with one of his classmates, I believe, although it happened too quickly to be sure - and when I questioned Potter about it, he reacted badly.  I told him to see me after the class and in the meantime to empty his cauldron, as his potion had clearly gone wrong and could not be rescued."

He paused, eyes glittering as he looked at the other men.  "I should add that the usual procedure for senior years when emptying their cauldrons in class is to Banish the contents to the drain in the corner of the classroom which is maintained for that purpose.  Potter …."  He paused and for the first time his sneer dropped.  "He looked me in the eyes and picked up the cauldron by the rim with both hands.  He didn't even look at it.  The light was still burning at full heat underneath and the contents were boiling."

"That's ridiculous," Sirius said flatly.  "Even if he was furious or upset, I can't believe - "

"If you will permit me to finish!" Snape snapped.

"Gentlemen!" Dumbledore said sharply.

There was a pause as Sirius and Snape both composed themselves.

"I have a suspicion, Headmaster, that Potter may not have been entirely aware of his actions," Snape said deliberately to Dumbledore.  "There was something in his eyes when I looked at him, and …."  He stopped and self-consciously rubbed his left forearm through the sleeve of his robe.

The gesture was not lost on the other two.

"How are Harry's Occlumency lessons progressing lately?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes sharp.

"He seemed to be making greater progress for a while, but this week - his efforts have been poor, very poor."

"So it is entirely possible that Lord Voldemort exploited a vulnerable moment."

"He's contented himself with tormenting Harry at night for the last two years," Sirius said, concerned.  "Why the sudden change?"

"To a certain extent, Harry thwarted him at Easter," Dumbledore replied.  "His bold strike failed and Harry succeeded in escaping once more.  He also made himself a little too visible to the Ministry and the public at large.  He no longer entirely has the shield of confusion and dissent; the world is waking up to his presence."

"Potter may have inadvertently invited him into his mind today," Snape added warily.  "He has been distracted this week, emotional – "

"Why?" demanded Sirius.

"Trouble between him and Mr. Weasley, I believe," Dumbledore replied, before Snape could respond.  "I keep a closer watch upon Harry than you might think, Sirius.  I take note when his patterns of behaviour change."

There was a pause, then Snape added reluctantly, "There may be something more."

"Such as?" Sirius asked sharply.

"Potter appears to be at odds with some of the other members of Slytherin."

"Isn't that always the case?"

"Not precisely.  Things have been relatively quiet since young Malfoy departed.  But this week there has been some … tension.  A series of rough pranks resulting in a number of detentions from other professors and points lost to the House as a whole.  Potter has been at the centre of all of these, and yet …."  Snape's mouth twisted as though the words were something sour he had to force out.  "I am forced to consider the possibility that the incident today was not at Potter's instigation and may have triggered his outburst towards me."

"Don't strain anything, Snape!" Sirius snapped, frustrated.

"Sirius, a little patience, if you please!"  Dumbledore turned back to Snape.  "What makes you think so, Severus?"

Snape looked balefully at the two men for a moment, before turning pointedly back to the Headmaster. 

"He left my classroom without his belongings.  I didn't notice at once in the fuss, but the Head Boy came to me shortly before you found Potter, Headmaster, and told me that a Ravenclaw prefect had retrieved a student's book-bag from the lake."

"Harry's?"

"The contents were soaked and mostly unidentifiable but I believe so, yes.  There is more."

Dumbledore's eyes closed for a moment.  "Go on, Severus."

"Mr. Zabini notified me during the break between classes that Mr. Potter's bed and belongings in their dormitory had been vandalised.  I inspected the damage; fortunately, it appeared to be largely superficial.  Some attempt had been made at breaking into his trunk, but he appears to have warded it sufficiently to prevent that."

"How much irretrievable damage has been done?" Dumbledore asked.

Snape hesitated.  "Difficult to judge," he admitted.  "It depends a great deal upon what exactly was in his book-bag and what precautions he had already taken against this sort of thing.  It's hardly the first time his belongings have been targeted and he has some sense of self-preservation, so it may be that the damage is minimal."

"He's been worrying about his Charms dissertation," Sirius said grimly.  "There's a good chance he was carrying that around with him."

"I think we should worry about that when we are assured that Harry's own condition is on the mend," Dumbledore said firmly. 

"I'll come up and see Poppy myself," Sirius began, but the headmaster shook his head firmly.

"There is really no need for that, Sirius.  I have seen Harry myself; Poppy has given him a number of healing potions and he is unlikely to wake before midday tomorrow, when, if you wish, I will contact you again to let you know of his progress.  Coming here now would be pointless, as there is nothing you or Remus could do that is not already being done."

Sirius clearly didn't like this but he reluctantly agreed.  "And you'll let me know what progress is being made in catching the perpetrators of the damage to his things?" he asked, giving Snape a pointed look.

Snape's eyes flashed.  "Contrary to what you may believe, I do not tolerate this kind of behaviour within my House, Black.  I am well aware of the most likely culprits and you may be assured that they will regret this prank for some time to come."

"Hm.  For once, I think I'm inclined to believe you," Sirius said, eyeing him narrowly.  A look of surprise crossed Snape's face at this, but it was gone again in a split second.  Sirius turned to the headmaster.  "Until tomorrow, then.  Thank you, Headmaster."

"You are welcome, Sirius," Dumbledore said soberly.

 

xXx

 

Snape spread the contents of Harry's sodden bag out across a table in his private office.  There were several books, all swollen with water; three bedraggled quills; a lump of something covered in mushy paper that might have been toffees; two bottles of ink; roll upon roll of ruined parchment; a small carrying chest of potions ingredients, the contents of which were now probably unusable; a pair of dragon-hide gloves; and Harry's wand.

"At least his wand doesn't appear to have been damaged," Snape remarked.  He picked up one of the books and cautiously opened it.  The print was still relatively clear; it was the book Remus Lupin had lent Harry a few weeks before.  "It may be possible to dry these out."

"His essays are another matter," Dumbledore noted, turning one of the sheets over.  The ink had not only run – it had been thoroughly soaked out of the parchment, leaving only blurred traces here and there.  "If his Charms dissertation was in here, it is lost.  He will have to start again."

Snape picked up another, smaller book with a leather strap holding it closed.  With a struggle he undid the knot and opened it; the pages inside were ruled feint filled with notes and diagrams, some in pencil and some in ink, and there was a handful of loose papers stuffed inside the cover.  The ink on the pages was blurred and unreadable; the loose notes a sodden mass.

"If this was Potter's research notebook, much of the contents will also be irretrievable," he said. He scanned the damage and his mouth twisted with something close to anger.   "Given that he has been working on this paper since Easter, I cannot see how he can recreate his work in the time left before the NEWT examination.Which is worse than unfortunate, given the proposed schedule for his final year."




"Indeed."

"With your permission, Headmaster, I believe there are a few members of my House who need to learn the true meaning of the word _detention_."

"I am sure I may safely leave discipline in your hands, Severus," Dumbledore replied mildly. 

"And if their parents complain?"

"You have my permission to use whatever language you think best to bring them to an understanding of the situation, but should they persist you may refer them to me.  In the meantime, there is the greater concern of Harry's papers."  Dumbledore looked thoughtful for a moment.  "It would be unfortunate indeed if he were unable to take the Charms NEWT as intended, but Madam Pomfrey tells me that he won't be able to write for at least a week.  It may, however, be possible to turn these events to some advantage ….  We shall see."

 

xXx

 

Harry discovered that there wasn't much one could do when one's hands were stuffed inside a pair of enormous, padded gloves.  He couldn't read or study or do anything useful, for example, and the windows of the infirmary overlooked the greenhouses rather than the Quidditch pitch or anything interesting.  He was muzzy from a mixture of potions and, with nothing to distract him from his worries, he quickly grew depressed. 

So he wasn't really in a mood to see Hermione Granger when she quietly pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"Hello," she said after a moment or two, when it became clear that Harry wasn't going to say anything to her.  "You look really fed up."

Which wasn't the most tactful thing she could have said, but Harry wasn't overly impressed by tact at the best of times.

"What do you want?" he asked sullenly.

Hermione took this as an invitation and set both her bag and the armful of books she was carrying on the end of his bed.  She sat down on the edge of the chair next to his locker. 

"How are your hands?" she asked seriously.

He stared at her for a moment, then lifted the padded gloves.  "They don't hurt much."

"Professor Dumbledore said you wouldn't be able to write for a while."

" _Dumbledore_ told you?"

"Hm.  He explained about what happened to your bag and essays as well."  Judging by her expression, there was a lot Hermione would have liked to say on that subject, but she restrained herself.  "Your Charms essay and notes were completely ruined, but your book seems to have dried out well – " she pointed to the volume on top of her pile, which looked a little stained and crinkly " – and I expect you remember a lot of what you wrote anyway, or the sources at least.  Don't you?"

"Maybe," he said, bemused, and he watched as she pulled out a fresh roll of parchment and a quill.

"Good," Hermione said calmly.  "So you talk and I'll write."  She held her quill poised above the parchment, and when Harry didn't say anything, she frowned.  "You have to say something, Potter.  I'm not a telepath."

"Why?" he asked.

"Why what?"

"Why are you doing this?"

She looked at him for a moment, head tilted to one side.  "Because you're in a fix and I can help you out.  Locking charms are something I'm good at."

"Great.  And what do you want in return?" Harry demanded.

"Ron's quite right about you," Hermione noted.  "I thought he was just gibbering, but you really do think everything's a contract of favours, don't you?  That Muggle uncle of yours wasn't in the Mafia, was he?  Or maybe it's just part of being a Slytherin?  Anyway, I'm not going to hold this over your head until I can call in the debt at a later date, Potter, if that's what's bothering you.  Although if it makes you feel better, I'm always open to advice on the Patronus Charm for my own essay."

Harry blinked, confused.

"You need to talk to Ron," she added more gently.  "He's been making everyone miserable all week, and he was horribly rude to Zabini and Goldstein earlier."

Now he was completely at a loss.  "Goldstein?  Tony Goldstein from Ravenclaw?"

"Hm."  Humour flashed into Hermione's eyes for a moment.  "When we were sorting out who was going to take catch-up notes for you in which classes, Tony offered to take Potions for you, since you're in the same class.  Ron wasn't very happy about it.  He's got it into his head that Tony fancies you – not that he's entirely wrong, if I'm any judge.  By the way, I can't imagine why you say you don't have any friends.  You've got Tony and Zabini for a start – although I don't think Zabini actually fancies you, which is probably just as well.  Or Millicent Bulstrode, thank heavens.  She's taking your notes for Herbology."

Harry wasn't sure if she was pulling his leg, and he didn't have the mental energy to find out. 

"Ron's not talking to me," he said after a moment.

Hermione sighed.  "He's a Weasley, Potter.  Sometimes they overreact even more than you do.  And you might not have noticed yet, but Ron can make a really spectacular idiot of himself when he tries.  He jumps to stupid conclusions and then beats himself up about it afterwards ….  I thought he was going to cry into my jumper last night when I told him what had happened to you.  He decided it was all his fault."

This bewildered Harry completely.  "How?"

"Don't ask me.  I'm sure there was logic in there somewhere, but it was nothing _I_ could make sense of."  She picked up her quill again.  "I've only got an hour before I have to do a prefect patrol, Potter.  Are you going to let me help you rewrite this essay?"

They looked at each other for a moment.

"Why don't you call me Harry?" he asked unexpectedly.

Hermione blinked.  "Because that would imply that we're friends, and you told me once that you didn't want to be friends with me.  Didn't you?"

Harry looked away. 

This was not a good time for him.  He'd already been feeling low when he had the accident; and the excruciating pain from his burned hands meant that Madam Pomfrey had dosed him up on a series of painkillers which, while being very efficient, had the side effect of making him rather more vulnerable than usual.  (Had he but known it, Dumbledore was counting on just that effect.)  He wasn't ready for an emotional conversation.

A hand gently touched his arm. 

"It's all right," Hermione said, although that didn't really make much sense in conjunction with her previous statement.  "Look, you're taking lots of potions and probably feeling very muddled.  How about I come back tomorrow?"  When he didn't answer her, she said more firmly, "I think that would be best.  I'll see you tomorrow, then."

After a moment or two he heard her walking away, but he couldn't make himself look around or call her back.

 

xXx

 

Outside the ward, Ron was dithering.  He pounced on Hermione as soon as she appeared.

"How is he?  Did he say anything?  What – "

"Ron, for heaven's sake!"  She detached him firmly from her arm.  "How do you _think_ he is?  He's got huge bandages on his hands, Madam Pomfrey's feeding him about six different potions, and someone nearly ruined his chances of passing his Charms NEWT a year early."

"Did he mention me?"

"Yes.  He said you weren't talking to him, and I thought he was going to cry.  I don't know what Madam Pomfrey's giving him, but it's certainly an eye-opener.  He can't control his expression to save his life."

Ron gave her a wide-eyed look.  "You're joking."

"I'm not."  Her expression grew serious.  "You should go and talk to him."

Ron drew back.  "I don't think that's a good idea …."

"It's not a good idea," she said crossly.  "It's a _brilliant_ idea.  He's so muddled up at the moment that he can't make that silly wooden face and pretend he doesn't care.  He's obviously lonely and miserable, so you should go and make it up with him."

"Hermione, you didn't hear what he said to me before – "

"No, but I know you and I'm pretty sure you took it the wrong way, whatever it was."

Ron opened his mouth to protest – and shut it again.  If the truth were told, he was beginning to wonder about that himself.  He already knew that Harry had a funny outlook on life and that sometimes he didn't mean the things he said they way they sounded.  It was just … he'd hoped, when he asked Harry what they meant to each other, that Harry would say something more definite than that they were _more than friends_.  'More than friends' wasn't much.  'More than friends' could mean anything.  He wasn't sure exactly what he'd expected Harry to say, though, and now he wondered if he'd been unreasonable.

"Go and talk to him," Hermione said firmly, and when he didn't move she gave him a shove through the door.

She half expected him to come tumbling out again, indignant and ready to tell her off ….  When he didn't, she huffed a breath and shook her head.

"I can't believe I'm acting as matchmaker to that pair."

 

xXx

 

Seeing Harry in the infirmary bed, looking small and rather defenceless, reminded Ron horribly of the Easter holiday when Harry had ended up in St. Mungo's after confronting Voldemort in Diagon Alley. 

He seemed to have nodded off in the few minutes since Hermione left.  Ron took the seat next to the bed cautiously, knowing that Madam Pomfrey would hex him if he woke the other boy up, and studied him.  He knew that Harry had burned his hands badly, because Anthony Goldstein had given him a blow-by-blow account of what had happened in the Potions lesson, but it was odd to see him lying there with what looked like an enormous pair of Ron's mother's oven gloves on his hands.  There was an impressive array of bottles and jars on his bedside cabinet too, and a small red light glowing above his bed was evidence of an alarm spell.

Ron wondered what he should do.  There was no point in staying here if Harry was sleeping, but on the other hand he didn't want to leave; he might not be given an opportunity to come back if he did.  Fortunately, Harry solved his dilemma for him by waking up.

He blinked slowly for a moment or two and his eyes eventually focussed on Ron as much as they could without his glasses on.  He seemed dopey and rather confused, but after a moment he said rather thickly, "H'llo."

"Hullo," Ron said awkwardly.  "How are you feeling?"

Harry had to think about this.  "Tired," he said finally. 

They looked at each other for a long moment, Ron unsure what to say or do. 

"Do you still hate me?" Harry asked unexpectedly.

Ron winced; Hermione hadn't been joking when she said Harry had no control under the influence of the potions.

"I don't hate you, mate," he replied, embarrassed.

"Not talking to me," Harry murmured.  His eyelids were beginning to droop again.  "I said it all … wrong.  Wrong thing.  You hate me."

There was a tiny sound; Madam Pomfrey appeared around the edge of the screens.  She frowned when she saw Ron there.

"You shouldn't be here," she scolded him softly, as she bent over Harry to take his pulse - under his ear, as his wrists were hidden inside the gloves.  "Mr. Potter isn't at all well.  He's taking some very strong painkillers and they'll make him sleepy and say strange things for a while."

Harry mumbled an incoherent protest at this.  Her face softened for a second and she gently brushed messy dark hair off his forehead with her fingertips, briefly revealing his livid scar.  Then there was a quiet buzz somewhere else in the ward and she sighed.

"Two minutes, Mr. Weasley," she told him sternly.  "Then I want you gone.  You can come back after morning classes tomorrow if you wish."

And she bustled away.

Ron came to a decision and gently patted the pocket of his robe until his kneazle Rosebud woke up and stuck her head out.  He lifted her out and put her on the bed next to Harry.  She was grown enough now that she was coming into some of her adult abilities, one of which was a talent for coming and going as she pleased, popping out of the most extraordinary places.  He could leave her in his dormitory in the morning and she would suddenly climb out of his bag halfway through his second class. 

"Will you stay with Harry for a while?" he asked her now, stroking her wonderfully soft velvet fur.  Her outsized ears swivelled as she studied the dark-haired boy in the bed.  "Keep him company for a while for me?"

Rosebud chirped, winding around his hands for a moment, then she shook herself and padded softly across the covers, settling next to Harry's elbow with her big blue eyes fixed intently on his face.

Ron sighed and leaned across the bed, touching Harry's shoulder gently.

"I've got to go, mate," he told him softly.  "I'll come back tomorrow though, I promise." 

If Harry heard him, he gave no sign; he seemed to have drifted into proper sleep at last.  Ron hesitated, then leaned across until he could rest his forehead against Harry's. 

"I don't hate you," he said.  "I don't think I could _ever_ hate you."

He brushed his lips over Harry's cheek and quickly left.

 **End Part 5/8**


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 6/8**

"Snape has stripped Parkinson of her prefect's badge!" Hermione told Ron delightedly, when they met up after her Arithmancy and his Divination lessons the following day.

"Eh?  What for?"

"Nobody's said, but it's obvious, isn't it?  She must have had something to do with the horrible things that have been happening to Potter.  Theodore Nott's in trouble too, apparently."

"Makes a change!"  Ron hesitated as he was about to take his seat in Transfiguration.  "Doesn't that leave Slytherin without sixth year prefects, though?  Malfoy wasn't replaced, was he?"

"Yes, and nobody knows if they'll be replaced at all this close to the end of term.  There's a special prefects' meeting tonight.  The Head Girl and Head Boy probably want to sort out patrol coverage until we all know what's going to happen."

"They're a bit short on candidates, aren't they?" Ron remarked.  "No one in their right mind would make Goyle or Crabbe a prefect."

"Zabini doesn't seem such a bad sort," Hermione observed.  She arranged her books on the desk in front of her tidily. 

"But what about the girls?"

"Well … Millicent Bulstrode's a bit odd," she admitted, looking daunted.  "That leaves Daphne Greengrass and she's a crony of Parkinson's."

"Doesn't look good, does it?"

They had to abandon the conversation then because Professor McGonagall arrived, but Ron felt a little bit cheered by Hermione's news.  Pansy Parkinson had been a disastrous prefect, abusing the position and using it to bully the lower years, just as Draco Malfoy had done when he was still at Hogwarts.  It was probably too soon to hope, but after reviewing the other members of their year in Slytherin, he came to the conclusion that any choice had to be better than those two.

After Transfiguration he hurried to lunch, bolting down chicken pie, new potatoes and peas before hurrying up to the infirmary.

Harry was awake and more alert than the day before.  Madam Pomfrey had temporarily removed the huge gloves, covering the burned palms and fingers with light dressings so that he could awkwardly use a fat-handled spoon to eat his lunch. 

"I feel about three years old," he said to Ron, when the redhead sat down next to him.  "She's put something on the burns to numb them, but I can't feel anything at all and the spoon just pushes stuff around the plate." 

"Want a hand?" Ron offered.

Harry hesitated, and his friend realised with a touch of wonder that he was deeply embarrassed.

"Give it here," he told him, trying to sound matter-of-fact, and he gently took the spoon from the swollen, bandaged fingers.  Harry had a portion of mashed potato, carrots and small meatballs in gravy; not the easiest meal to handle but at least it wasn't something pureed and disgusting.  He scooped up a meatball on the spoon and held it out.  It wasn't as easy to feed someone as it looked, but they managed. 

"Snape's taken Parkinson's prefect badge away," he said as he slowly helped Harry with his dinner.  "Hermione says he hasn't appointed anyone else yet, so they've got to change the patrol rota.  Nott's in trouble too."

Harry looked vexed at this.  "Why did Snape go and do that?"

"Because they trashed your stuff?  About time he actually did something about them, if you ask me."

"It won't make any difference," Harry muttered sullenly.  "It'll make 'em worse."

"Not even Snape could ignore them chucking your stuff in the lake and wrecking your bed in the dorm," Ron pointed out.

"Yes he could.  He's done it before."

"This is different."

"Is it?" 

Ron looked at him.  "Of course it is.  Look at your hands, mate!"

"They didn't do that," Harry muttered, not looking at him.

Ron put the plate and spoon down. 

"If it wasn't them arsing about," he said, "how _did_ it happen?"

Harry shrugged.  "I just picked up the cauldron.  They didn't do anything to make me."

"That's nuts," Ron told him flatly.

"Probably."

Sometimes, Ron thought, he felt close enough to Harry that it was almost as though they were wearing the same skin.  Easter had been like that ….  At other times, like now, though, they could have been on different planets for all that he could understand what was going on in the Slytherin boy's head.

"Why would you do something like that?" he asked, trying to be patient.

"I don't know.  It just … I felt …."  Harry visibly struggled to find the words.  "It – it wasn't _me_ …."

Ron wasn't the most intuitive boy at Hogwarts, but he could recognise that something must have occurred that his friend couldn't explain fully, and it occurred to him that if this happened to Harry as much as it seemed to, then the dark-haired boy had some justification for his many and abrupt mood swings.  Anyone would be driven to desperation, living such a life.

Seeing his friend's agitation, he matter-of-factly picked up the bowl and spoon again and scooped up another meatball.  "Don't worry about it, mate," he told him.  "Eat your dinner, eh?"

But Harry turned his head away, his expression tight.

Ron looked at him for a moment, wondering how to deal with this.  "Come on," he coaxed, after a moment.  "I'm not going to have to tease you like I do my baby cousin Marjorie, am I?"  He pretended to fly the spoon towards Harry.  "Open wide for the Quaffle!"

Harry let out a breath of suspiciously moist laughter.  "Tosser!"

"Yeah, but you love me for it, don't you?"

Their eyes met over the top of the spoon and Harry let him pop the meatball into his mouth.

 

xXx

 

Harry returned to class four days later, his hands still in thin bandages.  If he found writing difficult, he wasn't about to admit it, but most of the professors treated him lightly until he was fully healed.

He had been half-expecting to have to play catch-up in his lessons, in spite of Hermione's assurances that notes were being taken for him.  In the event he was startled – and unsure how to react – when Ron, Anthony Goldstein, Blaise and Millicent all handed him copies of their notes on his first day back, thus ensuring that while he still had work to do, he wasn't so desperately behind after all.  Hermione capped things off by giving him a long list of books and references and a working précis of his Charms essay, making it possible – difficult, but possible – for him to still complete and hand it in on time.

The only downside of his emancipation from the infirmary was his return to Slytherin House.  The atmosphere had not sweetened in his absence, and in the cases of Pansy and Theodore Nott it had soured even further.  He was also in the dog-house with Terence Higgs, as his injuries meant that he couldn't play Quidditch until almost the end of the term.  In the meantime the Slytherin Captain was forced to draft in the best of an unpromising set of recruits from the lower years to play Seeker, which turned Slytherin's chances of losing the Cup from a possibility to a certainty.

Retaliation, at least for the present, seemed to be off the agenda though.  Harry was thoroughly shunned by all but Blaise and Millicent, but no one took any direct action.  And he didn't have to look far for the cause of that.  Professor Snape was at his most forbidding when Harry arrived for his first Occlumency lesson after leaving the infirmary.

"It would appear, Potter," he said frostily, "that we still have a great deal of work to do on your shielding techniques.  If, that is, the current state of your hands is any indication."

Harry felt himself flush at this, aware only too painfully that he had let his guard down badly at a vulnerable moment.  At any other time he might have summoned some defensiveness against Snape's tone, but today he only muttered "Yes, sir," and felt grateful for Hermione ordering Ron to go over the Occlumency information with him again.

When he emerged, drained and trembling with mental and physical fatigue, he was dully surprised to find both the Gryffindors waiting for him in an alcove behind a statue of Berthilda the Brawny.

"You look terrible," Hermione told him with her usual lack of tact.  "Forget about doing your homework with Ron and me.  I probably shouldn't do this but – the password to the prefects' bathroom is _Fairy Foam-Out_.  Go and have a soak."

"You've never given _me_ the password," Ron grumbled to her amiably.

"You shouldn't have given up your prefect badge, should you?" she retorted, her mouth twitching.  "Go on, Potter," she told Harry sternly.  "Meet us in the library when you're done, if you're not too tired."

"Yeah, go on mate," Ron added encouragingly.

Harry didn't have the energy to argue, and in any case he didn't particularly want to.  A soak in the prefects' bathroom?  How often did he get opportunities like that?  All the same, it took all of his energy to drag himself up to the fifth floor and into the magnificent marble bathroom. 

Sinking into hot, foamy water was bliss, although his barely-healed palms tingled.  Harry submerged himself to the chin and simply lay in the water for the longest time, wondering dreamily if it would be possible for him to come back here with Ron at some point.

He was all but dozing when there was a sudden sharp rap on the door that woke him with a jolt.  The door locked itself and a light came on above it to warn other prefects when it was occupied, so Harry lay back in the water again warily, wondering if they would give up and go away before he left.  He might have a prefect's permission to use the bathroom but it was still highly irregular for him to be there. 

Then the door handle rattled angrily.  Pansy Parkinson's voice, muffled by the door but still quite clear, drifted through the lacquered wood.

"I don't know who you are in there, but you'd better get a move on!  Other people want to take a bath, you know!"

Harry's eyes narrowed.  She wasn't a prefect anymore herself!

There was a pause for a minute or two, then the handle rattled again.  Pansy let out an angry exclamation, seemed to thump the door with her fist, and silence fell.

Harry waited a long time before he climbed out of the bath.

The temptation was to tell Granger about this incident; Harry knew she was less than fond of Pansy and would love an opportunity to take points from her, but an obscure and irrational sense of House loyalty held him back from informing on a Slytherin to a Gryffindor.  And ratting on her to anyone else in Slytherin would get _him_ into trouble.

Which limited the action he could take to himself.  Harry wasn't tempted by that idea, of course.

Not at all.

 

xXx

 

"You are in _so_ much shit," Ron muttered to Harry the following morning, when he took his seat on one of Professor Trelawney's floral pouffes.  "Hermione is going to kill you.  Slowly."

"All she has to do is keep her mouth shut and we'll all be fine," Harry murmured back coolly.

"What's this _we?_   You two can slug it out between you - I'm not getting involved!"

"And they reckon chivalry is dead!"

Professor Trelawney drifted into the room and mistily told them all to take their books out and turn to page one hundred and eighty three.

Under the cover of rustling pages, Ron whispered back agitatedly, "You put dye in the prefects' bath somehow and turned Parkinson green!"

"Don't know what's she's complaining about," Harry whispered back.  "It's a Slytherin colour, isn't it?  Besides, how could I have done it?  I'm not a prefect and I don't have access to the bathroom, do I?  And she's not a prefect anymore, so she shouldn't have been in there."

Ron stared at him speechlessly.

"And don't try to tell me you wouldn't have done the same," Harry said softly, raising his brows at the redhead.

Ron didn't try to deny it, but he couldn't find the words to explain to Harry that using Hermione's kindly gesture to get back at Pansy Parkinson was an abuse of trust and the wrong thing to do.  Nor did he know how to point out to his friend that it was one thing for Ron to do it, but another entirely for Harry.  He knew instinctively that Harry would not understand this; in Harry's book he hadn't set out deliberately to use the opportunity to set a trap for Pansy and ergo there was no moral dilemma.

Being friends – lovers – with Harry was like keeping a hand-reared hippogriff as a pet.  It was ninety percent loyalty and ten percent dangerous unpredictability, and if Ron was going to survive the experience he needed to develop some sort of expert handling skills.

The trouble was, he had no idea where to look for a teacher.

 

xXx

 

Dobby the house-elf was waiting outside Professor Trelawney's classroom when the two of them emerged an hour later, once again bearing a summons from the Headmaster.  Ron's heart sank when he heard that and unbeknown to him so did Harry's, but the Slytherin was better at hiding it.  He left Ron at the head of the main staircase and followed Dobby to the two gargoyles guarding Dumbledore's office, gave the password and took the revolving staircase up to the top of the tower.

It was lunchtime, and the Headmaster was waiting for him with tea tray and large plate of sandwiches.  At the sight of this a wary look slid into Harry's eyes, one which the elderly professor was only too familiar with.

Not for the first time, Dumbledore reflected on the differences between Harry and his father.  The Headmaster had had many similar meetings with James Potter throughout his eventful career at Hogwarts, but wariness had never been something he had encountered from that ebullient and self-confident young man – even at times when James might have done well to feel some suspicion.

The prank, of putting dye into the taps of the prefects' bathroom, was a deed worthy of James Potter.  It was even worthier of Sirius Black in his heyday (and Dumbledore fully expected to receive expressions of delight from Sirius when he heard of this incident), but the difference was in the execution.  James and Sirius, and by default Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew, would have done this for the sheer joy of causing mayhem and would have owned up to the prank on the spot. 

Harry was not his father, nor yet his guardian.  Harry did not make pointless jokes; would probably not appreciate such jokes or understand the reasons behind them.  Harry only created mayhem when he had a very good reason to do so, and his subsequent enjoyment of it had little to do with the brilliance of execution and everything to do with the point he was making.  Nor would he own up to it unless pushed to do so, for in Harry's world one didn't make a scapegoat of one's self unless it was absolutely necessary.

Nevertheless, he did have his own odd little moral code and Dumbledore felt no guilt whatsoever in playing on that when the circumstances required it.

"Do take a seat, Harry, and help yourself to a sandwich," he said mildly, and after a moment Harry slid into the empty armchair opposite the Headmaster, although he didn't accept the offer of food.

Unconcerned, Dumbledore took a sandwich.  "Salmon," he commented comfortably, "and, I believe, chicken and cheese-and-pickle.  And fresh Ceylon tea, how very agreeable."  A wave of his wand and the tea began to pour itself.  "Don't be shy, dear boy, dig in.  I believe Sybil Trelawney's lectures are most stimulating to the appetite, if not to the – ah – inner eye."

Humour flashed into Harry's eyes and was gone again in a blink, but he relaxed slightly and accepted his cup of tea at least.

"I do believe," Dumbledore continued, between bites of his salmon sandwich, "that Miss Parkinson will be green until the weekend at least, in spite of regular scrubbings.  She will have to make do with the bathrooms in Slytherin House for the time being, however, as the prefects' bathroom is off limits to her.  But I doubt either situation will do her lasting harm."

Harry made no comment.  He sipped his tea, plainly waiting to see what the Headmaster would say next.

"Incidentally, the password to the prefect's bathroom has now been changed and a few additional precautions have been added to its security, just in case any enterprising persons take it into their heads to repeat the experiment with the dye."

Harry's expression remained politely enquiring.  His blandly non-committal face was, Dumbledore noted, really rather impressive for one of his age and temperament.  It was a skill his father had never possessed, although there were plenty who had felt that James's openness and honesty – even when he was being downright wicked – had been a virtue.  Those same people, many of them members of the Order of the Phoenix, now pointed up the differences between father and son and compared them unfavourably, to say the least.  And in so doing, Dumbledore felt, they missed one vital point. 

Harry too was honest; his honesty was simply of a less palatable kind.  He lacked the charm of James, it was true, but he also lacked the kind of superficial polish that had blinded people to his father's underlying faults.  James Potter, the Quidditch Captain, Head Boy and genial joker, had been a good man, but not always the hero some liked to portray him as.

"I must say, however, that it's rather a shame that Miss Granger should be so poorly repaid for her generosity."  Still Harry remained silent, non-committal.  Dumbledore contemplated his fine Spode teacup for a moment.  "How is the reconstruction of your Charms essay coming along?"

Ron Weasley might find Harry's world of checks and balances difficult to stomach, but the Headmaster was more pragmatic.  If debts and favours were what Harry understood, then Dumbledore would trade in those commodities without shame.

 

xXx

 

Hermione could also be a pragmatist, which was why on the following Saturday she made sure that Ron was out of the way at Quidditch practice before planting herself at their usual table in the library.  She loved Ron dearly, but sometimes in his efforts to act as a buffer zone between her and Harry Potter he caused more misunderstandings than he prevented.  She needed an opportunity to reel Potter in on his own terms, without their mutual friend panicking and intervening.

Sure enough, the Slytherin walked into the library some ten minutes after her and headed for 'their' table.  When he saw her there, he hesitated slightly then carried on walking towards her.

Hermione kept her head down, pretending she hadn't seen him.  She half expected him to simply put his books down at the other end of the table and start his homework as though she wasn't there, but instead he seemed to dither slightly and when she sneaked a peek a him through her lashes, he was pretending to study the spines of the books in the shelves around the table.

She had to swallow a smile.  She was starting to get an idea of what made Harry Potter tick and it was fascinating, amusing, frustrating and sad all at once.  When he was at his most infuriating, it was hard to remember that he was an orphan who was currently the subject of a subtle and concentrated hate campaign and the prime target of a megalomaniac.  But Hermione was beginning to think that infuriating was a better thing to be than pathetic or tragic, either of which he could easily have been instead had he been a weaker personality.

Just because she understood him better didn’t mean that she was going to let him off the hook, though.

She turned a page in her book and without looking up said, "You must have learned that look of supercilious boredom from Draco Malfoy.  It didn't suit him either."

That got his attention.  He dumped his bag onto the table rather noisily, shot her a cool glance and retorted, "Hair shirt itching today, is it, Granger?"

 _And battle is joined …._   Hermione sat back and folded her hands in front of her, regarding him serenely.  "I'm not the one with a guilty conscience, Potter."  She plucked his copy of _Vaults and Violence_ from her stack and shoved it down the table.  "Your book, by the way."

He took it, giving her an even nastier look which did not entirely cover the slight flushing of his cheeks.

Excellent.  The guilt was biting. 

Hermione calculated that in Potter's own terms he was owing six substantial favours now.  Zabini and Bulstrode were none of her concern, and how he settled his debts with Ron was their own business, but two of the favours owing were to her – for help with the Charms essay and for getting her into trouble over the password to the prefect's bathroom – and she thought she could talk Tony Goldstein around, which was enough to swing things strongly in her favour.

Ron would be horrified if he knew what she was about to do, which made it imperative to get it done before Quidditch practice was over.

"You owe me, Potter," she told him, keeping up the cool, calm tone.

"Yeah, yeah."  He pulled parchment and quills out of his bag and seemed to settle into a batch of homework, turning away from her slightly.  "I said I'd help you with your poxy Patronus essay, okay?  I haven't forgotten."

"Sorry, but that's not enough."

He stiffened and looked up.  "What?"

"You heard me," Hermione replied.  "It's a bit more than an essay now, isn't it?  I let you into the prefect's bathroom and you took advantage."

He raised a brow.  "Maybe you should have been a little less trusting?" he suggested coolly.

"Maybe I will next time, but that doesn't change the fact that you got me into trouble and you owe me for it."

His eyes flashed.  "What – " 

There was a hiss of annoyance from the next cubicle; Potter dropped his voice hastily.

"What the fuck is this?" he demanded in a furious whisper. 

Hermione smiled at him.  "Friendship, Slytherin style.  I'm surprised you don't recognise it."

 _"What?"_

"You owe me a very big favour or two, Potter.  For a friend I might let it go … but we're not friends, are we?  You've told me so several times.  So I'm afraid you have to pay up."

He was livid.  "What hag's den did you crawl out of this morning, you miserable cow?"

Ron definitely wouldn't have enjoyed this, she thought.

"Pay up or forfeit, Potter."

 _"Forfeit?"_   He all but laughed in her face.  "Yeah, right.  What are you going to do if I don't pay up, Granger?  Take House points?"

Hermione pulled her book towards her again and picked up her quill.  "Weren't those Disappearing Inks we studied in Potions last year fascinating?" she commented disinterestedly.  "I whipped up a batch the other day – just for research purposes, you know – and found a charm that can hold them visible for indefinite periods.  Of course, if you release the charm – poof! – anything written in Disappearing Ink, well, it disappears.  But it was useful to know about the charm."  She gave Potter a tight little smile.  "Especially when I ran out of ordinary ink the other day while I was writing up your notes."

He went white enough to create a little wriggle of guilt in her stomach, but she held fast to her resolve.  The deception was as much for his good as hers, she told herself.

"What do you want?" he demanded in a whisper.

Hermione put her quill down again.  "I'm not the only person who needs to learn how to perform the Patronus Charm," she said.  "There are several other people, Tony Goldstein included.  So I want you to come to a DA meeting and teach us all."

He sat back, looking outraged.  "You won't learn it in one lesson, you twit!  It took me four or five attempts, and Remus was a proper teacher – "

"I don't expect us to do it in one lesson," she shot back.  "Obviously you would come along as often as necessary." 

"I can see that being really popular!" Potter sneered.  "Potty Potter at one of your little jamborees!"

Hermione picked up her quill again, shrugging.  "It would do you good to socialise with some different people for once.  But it's your decision, Potter.  And your essay."

There was a long silence; Hermione began to write, although it was all nonsense, just words on the paper to make it look as though she didn't care, when in reality she was genuinely afraid that he would call her bluff.

Finally, he slumped back in his seat looking sullen and resentful.

"You really are a bitch, Granger," he said.

She gave him a bright smile.  "Then we have something in common, don't we?"

 **End Part 6/8**


	7. Chapter 7

**Part 7/8**

The mood could not be said to be congenial when Harry arrived with Ron for the next meeting of the DA, the following afternoon.  He was already familiar with the Room of Requirement, but it took them three attempts to get inside as Harry's heart could not be said to be in the exercise, and once they were inside there was considerable tension from the other members of the group.  Two Ravenclaws (including his ex-girlfriend, Cho Chang) departed immediately, followed by a handful of the younger Hufflepuffs.  Those remaining set up a low and antagonistic rumble of discontent.

Then Hermione arrived, at first looking bright and cheerful but her smile slipping as she realised the mood in the room.

Harry dug his hands into his pockets, regarding her with a distinctly saturnine grin.

"You didn't tell them I was going to be here, did you?" he said.

One of the sixth year Hufflepuffs - the pugnacious Ernie Macmillan - pushed his way to the front. 

"Did you know about this, Granger?" he demanded.

"Of course," she said, trying to look unruffled.

"But he's a Slytherin!" someone else said angrily.

Hermione's glare matched the one Ron was giving that speaker. 

"You all said you wanted to learned how to do the Patronus Charm," she said sharply.  "Well, Potter can teach us.  He's been doing that charm since third year - "

"I should think there's quite a lot about the Dark Arts he could teach us," a seventh year Gryffindor girl said curtly.  "But if you don't mind, I think I'll pass."  She left, leaving an uneasy group behind her.

"Does anyone else want to quote headlines from the ever-reliable _Daily Prophet?_ " Hermione said acidly, folding her arms.

"But he's a Slytherin!" a younger Ravenclaw girl protested again weakly.

"Yep," Harry nodded, adding confidingly, "We sacrifice babies in our common room fireplace, you know."

"You're not helping your case here," Ron pointed out in a tired voice.

"Hey, this was all Granger's idea, remember?  I've got plenty of other things I could be doing."

"So piss off and do them," a Hufflepuff, Zacharias Smith, said curtly.  "You're not wanted here."

"Speak for yourself," another Ravenclaw said sharply.  This was Anthony Goldstein, Harry's partner in Potions, and - if Hermione was to be believed - an admirer.  "If you think Professor Dodderell's going to teach us anything useful this term, why don't _you_ piss off, Smith?  I've learned more here than I've learned in the last two years in Defence class, and I reckon Potter can teach us a lot more."

"If you wanted to learn how to do a Patronus, Goldstein, why didn't you just ask?" Harry asked him irritably.

The other boy didn't take offence at his tone; rather he smiled at him, making Ron shift restlessly behind Harry.

"I thought you probably had enough on your plate already," he said.

"Look, what do you wankers _want?_ " Ron broke in impatiently.  "Harry's the only person in the school who can do a Patronus, apart from the teachers."

One of the girls said hesitantly, "I thought next year Professor Lupin might - "

"Forget _that_ ," Harry interrupted her.  "There's an anti-werewolf bill going through the Wizengamot right now that could have Remus tagged and confined by the end of the summer.  He's not coming back here to teach any time soon, if ever."

"But Potter _lives_ with Professor Lupin," Hermione said, jumping in.  "This isn't just about the Patronus Charm.  If we get stuck on other things, then maybe - " she glanced nervously at Harry but resolutely kept going, "maybe he can ask Professor Lupin for help."

"That goes a bit beyond our original bargain, doesn't it?" Harry remarked dryly.  Then he caught sight of Ron's face; the redhead was giving him an imploring look which made him shut up.

Into the sudden silence, Hermione continued hesitantly, "It isn't just about Patronuses.  We all know the Death Eaters are gaining strength and the Ministry is covering that up.  There are things we need to know … just in case.  Potter, you've faced You-Know-Who several times.  And the Death Eaters.  You can tell us what to expect."

The silence stretched on.

"But … You-Know-Who won't come here," one of the boys said uneasily at last.  He was another Ravenclaw; in his third year, by the look of him.

Harry cast him a scornful look.  "Won't he?  Why not, then?"

"He's not interested in us," a girl replied nervously.  "It's you he wants, everyone knows that."

For the first time, Harry began to feel a tickle of genuine amusement, although not the cheerful kind.  This argument was bordering on the ridiculous and it was impossible for him not to find their behaviour funny.

"Yeah," he agreed, nodding.  "But there's one problem with that theory - I'm _here_ , aren't I?  So if he wants me, he's sort of got to come here to get me.  Don't you think?"

"He's not coming here," Zacharias Smith said scornfully.  "Dumbledore is here.  Everyone knows You-Know-Who is afraid of Dumbledore."

Harry thought about the confrontation at the Ministry only a year ago, and the terrifying duel between Dumbledore and Voldemort in the atrium.  His amusement drained away.

"He's not afraid of Dumbledore," he said.  "Not the way you think he is, anyway."

"Right.  And you know this how?"

Harry looked at him.  The link between him and Voldemort was something he wasn't supposed to talk about, especially not to the likes of Smith who would probably react with noisy hysterics if he knew the whole story about Harry and Voldemort.

When he didn't speak, Smith snorted contemptuously. 

"You're all talk, Potter.  I think the _Prophet_ was right about you all along - you're nothing but a screaming hysteric who likes the attention."

"Yeah - because the _Prophet_ is so accurate!" Ron snapped.  "Like it was accurate last year when it printed all those stories about Harry telling lies about You-Know-Who, when it just happened that he was telling the truth after all!"

"I didn't say he was lying about You-Know-Who!" Smith retorted heatedly.  "I'm just saying that he says a lot of things that he won't back up with evidence or information!"

"Perhaps he can't - had that occurred to you?" Anthony Goldstein suggested sharply, before Harry could respond to this.

"Bullshit," Smith said comprehensively, and he folded his arms.

"He's never properly explained Cedric Diggory's death," Ernie Macmillan added, the hostility in his voice now overt.  "It's very convenient to blame You-Know-Who when he was the only witness."

"Dumbledore told us what happened that time!" Hermione exclaimed, aghast.

"Do you think I killed him, Macmillan?" Harry asked bluntly.

Ernie shrugged, but he wouldn't look at him. 

"You think I was strong enough to cast the Avada Kedavra Curse on someone in fourth year?  Do you think I had a good enough reason to _want_ to kill him?"

"Cho …." someone said very quietly from the back of the room.

"Well, _she_ obviously didn't think Harry killed Cedric," Ron put in indignantly .  "She went out with him last year!"

Harry was still looking at Ernie Macmillan. 

"Do you think I hated him, Macmillan?" he asked, pushing.

Ernie looked up.  "You wanted Chang and he got there first," he said grimly.

"That wasn't what I asked."

"Yeah, I think you hated him."

Harry remembered Cedric grinning at him over the top of the Tri-Wizard Cup, the warmth and strength of the Hufflepuff's hand as they shook on the bargain they'd struck to take the Cup together.  And he remembered the shock in the dead youth's eyes, the coldness of his flesh as he grabbed his body and brought it back to Hogwarts.

"Well, you're wrong," he said bleakly.  "He was one of the few really decent people I've ever met."

He turned away from Ernie and managed to force his face into its usual mask of calm as he faced Hermione.

"No essay's worth this," he told her curtly.  "Do what you like - I'll shred it for you myself, if you want.  But I'm not going to stand here and justify myself to this lot all afternoon."

He pushed his way through the students to the door and walked out.

 

xXx

 

It took a while for Ron to find Harry, but eventually he tracked him down to the abandoned third floor of the castle.  Harry was sitting in the embrasure of a window off the main corridor, where they'd met once or twice before.  Ron took a seat next to him and sighed.

"Hermione said to tell you that she's sorry and you shouldn't worry about your essay – there's nothing wrong with the ink she used.  She only said there was to persuade you to come to the meeting."

Harry glanced at him.  "A bit late for that, isn't it?  I sat up last night and copied it out onto a fresh roll of parchment."

Ron stared at him.  "Why did you come to the meeting today then?"

The other boy shrugged.  "I still owed Goldstein."

"Jesus, Harry."  Ron shook his head disbelievingly.  "Do you trust anyone?"

Harry gave him a tight little smile but didn't answer.

"Right, fine, I know I shouldn't ask questions like that but – "

"Maybe you should," Harry interrupted.  "Maybe you should think a bit more about what it's going to mean being more than friends with me."

"What?"

"I've been thinking about that day when I picked up the cauldron," Harry told him doggedly.  "He – he got right inside my head and I never even knew he was there.  If he can do that when I'm in Potions and not even thinking about anything important, what could he make me do when I'm with you?  Macmillan was wrong about me and Cedric – I liked Cedric, Ron – but look what happened to him.  Voldemort killed him just because he was there when he shouldn't be.  There with me.  In a way they're all right about me.  I'm too dangerous to be around."

"Stop talking a load of shit!" Ron told him sharply.  "Do you think I haven't already thought about that?  Do you think I don't think about stuff at all?  I _know_ it's a risk being with you, but Harry – you can't keep being alone.  Isolating yourself just plays into You-Know-Who's hands.  And besides, I want to be with you."

"Why?" Harry demanded.  "I know what I get out of being with you, but what's in it for you, Ron?  'Cause I know you must be getting shit from people like Finnigan for hanging around with me, not to mention having to watch crap like Smith and Macmillan were throwing around today.  What makes it worth it?"

Ron stared at him in disbelief.  "Are you _still_ completely gormless?  Do you still think it's all about what we get out of it?  Maybe I just happen to like you, you twit, had you thought of that?  Maybe I even – "  He paused and took a deep breath, clearly bracing himself.  "Maybe I even _love_ you – although God knows why when you keep coming out with shit like this!"

Harry felt his face heat up.  How the hell did Ron just say things like that?  How was it that _that_ word seemed to trip off his tongue so easily when Harry had so much difficulty even thinking it?  He knew how he felt about Ron, but it would have been easier to walk through hoops of fire than actually put a name to it and say it aloud.  And besides ….

"Is that a good enough reason?" he asked, and to his chagrin the words came out in a very small voice.  "To put up with shit and get yourself noticed by Voldemort?"

Ron looked at him helplessly.

"Well, obviously it must be," he said.  "I mean … your dad thought so, didn't he?"

Harry had to look away.  There were a lot of things he wanted to say to that – to tell Ron, for a start, that his father wasn't the great bloke everyone made him out to be, that there was another side to the man that no one ever seemed to want to mention when they talked about him, but … the fact still remained that James Potter had stood in front of Voldemort and died trying to stop him getting to his wife and son.

And whatever else Harry might think of his father, he wasn't quite Slytherin enough to say he had been stupid to do it.

"Come here," Ron said quietly, and he tugged at Harry's arm until the dark haired boy was pulled into an awkward embrace.  "It's not always about what people can do for you and what you can get out of it yourself, okay?  Sometimes people do stuff just because they like other people.  And if you hadn't had to live with your dotty Muggle relatives for so long, and weren't living with a bunch of self-serving dickheads in Slytherin now, you'd know that."

"They're not _all_ self-serving," Harry mumbled into his shoulder.

"I reckon we'll have to agree to disagree on that one," Ron told him dryly.

"Some of you Gryffindors are dickheads too."

"At least we're not responsible for Macmillan or Smith."

"I don't want to go to another of those meetings," Harry told him.

"That's up to you, mate."  Ron looked down at the dark head on his shoulder for a moment.  "I reckon you've had a pretty crap year so far.  If you don't want to make it even crapper, I'm with you all the way."

 

xXx

 

If Harry thought this was the last he would hear of the matter, he was mistaken.  While Hermione was still dithering over whether she should pursue the Patronus question with him after the last disaster, someone else had no such qualms.

"So, Potter," Anthony Goldstein said to him quietly, while they were skinning and chopping Shrivelfigs in Potions the following week.  "About this Patronus Charm."

"The deal's off, Goldstein," Harry replied curtly.

"I'm not talking about DA.  _I_ want to know how to do it.  You're not allowed to play Quidditch yet, are you, so you've got next Saturday morning free and so have I."

Harry sighed inwardly and looked at the other youth.  Tony seemed perfectly serious.  And as Harry _had_ told him he should ask, he couldn't really complain when the other boy did just that.

"You'll have to find somewhere where we can practice without attracting too much attention," he said reluctantly.

Tony shrugged.  "The Room of Requirement should be free.  It doesn't just exist for DA, you know."

"Fine.  Saturday morning it is - early."

They carried on skinning and chopping.  Snape was stalking around the dungeon, lavishly criticising people's skill with a paring knife.

"What about Granger?" Tony asked finally.

"What about her?" Harry said even more curtly than before.

"It's not her fault some of the DA members are twits, Potter.  Some of us genuinely want to learn, Granger included.  Can I tell her you're teaching me on Saturday?  And can she come along if she likes?"

"Forget "Dumbledore's Army" or whatever it is DA stands for.  You should be calling yourselves the League for Inter-House Cooperation or something."

"DA's a good idea," Tony told him.  "I don't think I'd have passed my Defence OWL without it, although admittedly Granger's no great shakes at teaching.  But some people are and we help each other out.  I've learned a lot there."

Silence.

"So – can I tell her?"

Harry sighed audibly this time, as he slowly added handfuls of the diced root to their cauldron. 

"Do what you like, Goldstein.  It's not like I can stop you."

"Potion brewing has been known to require a modicum of concentration," a darkly melodious voice intruded into the conversation.  "Five points from Ravenclaw for lack of due attention, Mr. Goldstein.  And if you do not demonstrate greater skill with sharp objects, Mr. Potter, I may find it necessary for you to practice your skills under my supervision next weekend."

Tony flushed a dark red, but Harry merely cleared his chopping board and pulled a pestle and mortar from under the bench to start grinding abalone shells.  After a moment or two of watching Snape moved on again.

"He doesn't like you much, does he?" Tony murmured, as he tipped his own diced Shrivelfig into the cauldron and gave it a quick stir.

"It's taken you six years to work that out?" Harry muttered back irritably.

 

xXx

 

So on the following Saturday morning Harry found himself back outside the Room of Requirement, pacing up and down and thinking irritably of a room where he could show the others how to produce a viable Patronus. 

When the door finally appeared, he turned the handle and went inside to find that it both was and wasn't the room that had been there when he'd attended the DA meeting with Ron.  Most of the bookshelves and instruments were gone, there were thick, puffy mats around the edge of the room, and Harry was interested to see that there was a big trunk in one corner identical to the one Remus had used to keep his boggart in for their private lessons during his third year.  And when he looked, on the one bookshelf that remained were books about protective magics, several blue glass bottles marked "Restorative Potion" and a small wooden crate with the Honeydukes logo seared into the lid.  He peeked inside: chocolate bars.

All the things you needed when you were preparing to face Dementors.

The thought made Harry's throat go slightly dry, but it all made perfect sense.  If the trunk contained a boggart – and from the rattling sounds, it surely did – then with Harry present it would turn into a Dementor.  And his pupil, or pupils, would have a chance to test their skills against the nearest thing they would see to a real Dementor unless they got terribly unlucky.  But it was still close enough to a Dementor to make Harry quite unwell.

Fortunately, the others arrived before he could change his mind and leave. 

Tony Goldstein had gone a little beyond their agreement.  With him was not only Hermione but also Ron (although Harry was unsurprised by this, as he'd told Ron about the lesson himself), Terry Boot and Luna Lovegood of Ravenclaw, and – astonishingly – Blaise Zabini.

"We managed to lose Macmillan and Smith at least," Ron told him with a grin, when he saw Harry's raised brows.

"Well, that's something."  But Harry was still looking at Blaise.

The other Slytherin shrugged. 

"I heard a rumour," was all he would say, and Harry didn't enquire further.

"The room has changed quite a bit," Hermione noted.  "I wonder why?"

"Because this is all we'll need," Harry replied shortly.  "Look, are you all sure you want to do this?"

Luna's attention didn't seem to have been fixed on anything in particular, but suddenly her eyes were sharply on him. 

"Yes, please," she said in a dreamy tone, just as though she'd been offered a cup of tea.

Harry shot her an uncertain look, but decided to keep going. 

"You might want to think about this.  Once you can do the charm – if you can – we're going to practice on a boggart and it could make you feel a bit ill."

"I thought this charm was to repel Dementors?" Terry Boot said with a frown.  "What use is a boggart going to be?"

"If the boggart focuses on me, it'll turn into a Dementor," Harry said curtly, irrationally annoyed with the Ravenclaw even though it was a reasonable question. 

"Good lord, where did you get a boggart from?" Hermione said quickly, sounding impressed.

"The room provided one," Harry muttered.  "Let's … just get on with this, okay?  And one of you needs to remember the boggart repelling charm, because I might not be able to deal with it."

"I can do that," Tony said quietly.  Clearly he was beginning to understand Harry's reaction.

"Right.  Okay, so first of all you need to think of a really happy memory …."

They were quick studies all of them, including Ron, although at the end of their sixth year they ought to be.  None of them, including Blaise, seemed to have any problems in finding a suitably happy memory and by lunchtime they were each producing at least a fuzzy outline of a near-corporeal Patronus.  Hermione, of course, had a fully corporeal Patronus, a gambolling otter that she was thoroughly delighted with.  Luna's was a curious shape like a flame hanging in the air before her; Tony had a large revolving star like a Christmas tree ornament; and Blaise had something that looked enough like a miniature dragon that they decided it was probably a wyvern.  Terry Boot's seemed to be some kind of large cat that snarled silently, and Ron's was a bird of prey, possibly a large owl.

"Okay, that's good," Harry said finally, wiping his brow.  Teaching took more effort than he'd realised.  "This is beyond NEWT level, you know, and to get it in one lesson is really good."

And it was, although he supposed it helped that they all clearly had a stock of happy memories to call upon.  That had been his biggest problem when Remus had been trying to teach him and even when he was concentrating hard, the day he'd got his letter and gone to Diagon Alley hadn't been a strong enough memory to make it easy.

It was tempting to call a halt now and suggest another lesson another day, but Harry knew that was pure cowardice.  It was stupid to put off letting them all try their luck with the boggart just because he didn't want to find out what horrible memories a Dementor could call up in him now.

Somehow he doubted it would be his parents' murders this time.

"Okay.  I think we should … try the boggart.  Um … Hermione, why don't you go first?  Stand back while I open the trunk and let it focus on me.  When it turns into the Dementor, you can step up and repel it.  If your Patronus is corporeal it should prevent me getting the full effect, but remember you need to keep concentrating on your happy memory after you've said the charm."  Harry paused.  "And, um, Tony – you might want to get ready with the Ridikulus charm in case it gets to both of us."

Harry wasn't sure what he'd said to make the two of them smile at him like that, so he ignored them and went quickly to the trunk, which was rattling quite fiercely now as though its occupant knew what was coming.  He had to take a deep breath before he flipped the catches and threw the lid back.

The Dementor reared up so quickly that he had no time to prepare himself for it.  It noticed him at once and brought its full attention to bear –

\- and Harry came around to find himself on his back on one of the padded mats, with Luna waving smelling salts under his nose and the others gathered around him anxiously.  They were all pale with fright, but Ron had kept his head and located the chocolate.  Harry weakly accepted a chunk and after a few minutes he was able to sit up.

"Oh Harry, I'm so sorry!"  To his horror, he realised that Hermione was on the point of weeping over him.  "I wasn't fast enough – it took me by surprise and I couldn't seem to make the charm work – "

"Yeah, that's why you need to practice with a boggart-Dementor," Harry managed.  "It's always worse than you think it'll be."  The unpleasant ringing in his head was easing, but he didn't want to think about the things the faux-Dementor had dragged out of his memory. 

"I reckon we should all call it a day," Ron said, firmly authoritative.  "Fix another day to come back and have a go."

Right at that moment Harry couldn't imagine surviving a second session like this one, but he didn't argue.  It was at least better than trying straight away.

"It's lunchtime," Luna remarked almost idly, and that seemed to sway Terry Boot and Blaise, both of whom had seemed reluctant to let the matter go.

"Shall we do this again next Saturday?" Tony suggested.

"Saturday afternoon," Ron amended.  "I've arranged a Quidditch practice for the morning."

"Okay."

"Harry?"  Hermione looked at him anxiously.  "Will that be all right for you?"

 _No,_ he wanted to say, _it won't._   He had homework and essays and Occlumency with Snape, a second book on the Animagus transformation to read, and at some point he had to get back on his broom and start practising his Quidditch moves for when Madam Pomfrey would allow him to take his place in the team …. 

"Yeah," he sighed.  "Okay."

 **End Part 7/8**


	8. Chapter 8

**Part 8/8**

It was strange but considering everything that had happened over the term, only one thing really stuck out in Harry's mind as a true high point.  There were other things to be pleased about of course: getting a qualified approval from Snape for his increasing success with Occlumency; finishing Sirius's Animagus books and completing his Charms essay in time for submission; successfully teaching his small handful of 'pupils' how to repel a Dementor to the point where he no longer suffered a collapse during every session.  Those were the things he counted as small high points.

But the thing that struck him as the best point in the term was getting back on his broom one evening and spending two hours in the air with Ron just flying around the school grounds.  They raced, they lazed, they talked Quidditch and plans for the summer.  They landed briefly on a forgotten tower landing pad and kissed behind its rickety broom-shed.

Harry had long ago learned that true pleasure sometimes came in very small doses - an unexpected sweet where none had been expected, praise from an unusual quarter, a few moments of peace instead of strife.  He took his moments with Ron where he could, held the memory of them close inside and buried it deep where probing minds couldn't find them, and coveted the next snatched moment whenever it might be.

He didn't plan for more than that.  The summer holiday was coming, but Ron would be going away.

 

xXx

 

Exams were held over the last two weeks of term, the first of which were the two papers that comprised the Charms NEWT Harry, Hermione and a handful of others were sitting alongside the seventh year pupils.  He sweated through the papers (quite literally - the two exams fell on hottest day of the summer term and the Great Hall was like an oven despite the efforts of Professor Flitwick), after which the routine end-of-year exams almost seemed like a walk in the gardens by comparison. 

Like most of the pupils in the fifth through to seventh years, he spent most of his free time revising, and as each exam was staged the respective classes were released and he had more and more free time.  Until finally he completed the Herbology exam and as he left the greenhouses he suddenly realised that this was it - he had three clear days until the term ended.

Three days to do anything he liked.

Harry nearly whooped; he ran all the way down to the dungeons, where he dumped his bag into his trunk and locked it, then he raced back out again to look for Ron. 

But the Gryffindor wasn't in any of his usual haunts.

It was nearly dinnertime before Harry finally encountered Ron's sister, Ginny, in the corridor outside the library and if he hadn't been so keen to find his friend he wouldn't have approached her to ask.

Ginny gave him a rather measuring look before she said, "He's in his dormitory, packing."

"Packing?" Harry echoed blankly.

"To go to Egypt?  He's visiting our brother Bill, he told me you knew about it."

"Yeah, but …."  Harry stopped.  _But it's not the end of term for another three days!_

She shrugged.  "Gringotts have a regular portkey system for sending people out there and it goes tomorrow.  Professor McGonagall's given permission for him to leave early, otherwise he'd have to wait a week to travel again."

"Oh."

Ginny saw his face and seemed to come to a decision.  She was, Harry would realise a little later, growing into a copy of Hermione in many ways.

"Come on, Potter," she told him, and she took his arm, pulling him gently down the corridor with her.  "If you want to talk to him, it had better be now because he's leaving tonight."

She dragged him all the way to Gryffindor Tower, where she made him stand a few feet away from the portrait that concealed the entrance while she whispered the password.  Then the painting of the Fat Lady swung gently aside and Ginny beckoned to him.

"You might as well come inside, just this once," she told him.

He was reluctant - he would be about as welcome as a snake in their laundry, he was sure - but on the other hand, he was also intrigued.  Gryffindor Tower was where his godparents and parents had lived while they were at Hogwarts ….  Curiosity outweighed reluctance and Harry hesitantly followed Ginny inside, aware of the Fat Lady's disapproving eyes on him as he did so.

There was a lot of scarlet everywhere, in the hangings, furnishings, paintings and carpets.  It was also very light, with great long windows, unlike the Slytherin Common Room where there was no natural light and the furnishings were very dark.

The few Gryffindors currently in the Common Room stared at him in a hostile way as they passed, but no one tried to interfere.  Harry supposed that a combination of Ginny's attitude and her prefect's badge had something to do with that, but he was grateful all the same that the majority of the House were apparently elsewhere.  Ginny led him up a flight of stone steps on the opposite side of the Common Room and up and up, passing several landings, until they came to a room right at the top of the Tower, where she knocked on the half-open door and put her head around the edge.  Harry could hear several male voices inside just before she said, "Ronnikins - someone to see you!" and gave him a sharp shove through the door.

Ron was standing next to a bed that was one of four draped in more of the House colours; scarlet and gold hangings and bedspreads, with worn scarlet and gold rugs on the floor.  His trunk was open on his bed and there were piles of clothes and books everywhere.  Neville Longbottom and Seamus Finnigan were sitting on the end of their beds, watching as Ron tried to pack.  The redhead looked up as she spoke, impatient and annoyed, his hair standing on end and his shirt hanging out of the back of his trousers.

"Ginny, will you _stop_ calling me - oh!"

There was a dithering pause as everyone stared at each other in surprise.  Then Harry cleared his throat, hoping he didn't look as nervous as he felt.

"It was your sister's idea," he explained, feeling obscurely that while this might be a bit craven, it was still better for her to get any flak coming rather than him.

"Yeah, probably," Ron agreed.

Seamus got up.  "'Scuse me," he said sourly, "but I think someone needs to remind your sister about passwords and the whole point of using them."

"Stuff it, Seamus," Ron told him amiably.  To Harry he said, "Did she give you our password?"

It was tempting to say yes, just to see what would happen, but Harry was acutely aware that he was on enemy territory. 

"No - she made me stand back while she said it."

"That makes it all okay, then!" Seamus retorted sarcastically, throwing his arms in the air.  "Why don't we just invite _all_ the Slytherins inside?  Nott and that Greengrass slapper and - "

"Sure.  Have a tea party," Ron agreed.  He tried to wedge a book into a corner of his trunk, failed and took it out again.  He stuffed a pair of rolled up socks in there instead.  "We can give Parkinson and Goyle some of Fred and George's Ton Tongue Toffees - I reckon I've still got a few somewhere."

Harry shifted nervously from one foot to the other, realised what he was doing and folded his arms defensively.

"Weasley!" Seamus said explosively.  "There's a Slytherin in our dorm!"

"Well, it's not like he's going to crap on the carpet or chew the hangings," the redhead pointed out reasonably, "so what's your problem?"

Neville sniggered and Harry was surprised to feel himself relaxing just a little.  No one was hexing him yet; that in itself was unexpected.

"Just think," Ron continued cheerfully, as he gave up on tidy packing and began to dump piles of clothes into his trunk any which way.  "A slip of fate and he could have been sleeping in here with us."  He paused, frowning, and turned to look at the large space to one side of his bed that was inadequately filled with an extra rug, a small round table and a chair with the Gryffindor crest on the seat in worn, tooled leather.  "Actually, I've always wondered if there should have been another bed there."

"Fuck you!  I'm going to find a prefect," Seamus said angrily and he stormed out of the room, rather pointedly shouldering Harry out of the way in the process.

"Good luck!" Ron called after him.  "I reckon Hermione's in the library, but Prewett's probably in her dorm!"  He turned back to his trunk.  "He's such a bloody girl sometimes."

The dormitory seemed a lot emptier without the Irishman in it.  Neville didn't seem inclined to follow Seamus's example, but Harry could feel the other boy's attention on him when he wasn't looking in that direction.  He cleared his throat again and Ron shot him a sideways grin.

"You all right, mate?"

"Yeah.  Um … your sister said you're going tonight?"

"Yeah, there was an owl waiting from my mum when I got out of Herbology.  There's a portkey to Cairo from Gringotts tomorrow, so Dad's picking me up and we're staying at The Leaky Cauldron tonight.  Bloody good thing I had my last exam today."

"Are you taking all your school stuff to Egypt then?" Neville broke in, frowning.

"Nah.  Mum's packing up a load of my stuff for Dad to give me, and he's taking my trunk home with him tomorrow, after he's seen me off."

Harry's chest began to feel tight with some unaccustomed emotion.  He couldn't watch Ron's efforts to stuff his trunk anymore; pulling his wand out of his sleeve, Harry stepped over and flicked it over the mess of clothes and books.

 _"PACK!"_

There was a wild rush of movement.  Everything that was still on the bed shot towards the open trunk, and everything already in there sorted itself out.  They got a brief glimpse of neatly folded school sweaters before a hand-knitted blanket whisked out of Ron's bedside cabinet and folded itself primly on the top.

Ron raised his brows.  "Where'd you learn that one?"

Harry shrugged.  "Remus.  He's good at spells like that." 

"You'll have to show me sometime."  Ron slammed the lid down and thumped the catches until they locked.  "Thanks, mate.  That's saved me a job.  Nev, aren't you supposed to be meeting Eloise Midgen now?"

Neville looked blank.  "I am?"

"Yeah, you are," Ron said firmly.

There was a pause.  The two Gryffindors stared at each other and Harry, trying to remain nonchalant, studied the carved Gryffindor shield above the door.

"Right," Neville said finally, bemused.  "I'll just … go, then."

"Yeah, okay," Ron replied casually.  "If I don't see you before I go, have a good summer, eh?"

"Enjoy Egypt."  Neville scooted around Harry.  "Um … see you, Potter."

"Yeah …."

Neville disappeared and Ron quietly shut the door behind him.  When he turned back to Harry his expression was relieved.

"I'm glad you came up here.  I thought I was going to have to leave you a note or something."

"It's a bit sudden, isn't it?" Harry said, and cringed inwardly at the disappointment in his voice.

"I didn't think I was going till next week either," Ron said, "but Bill sent Mum an owl about the early portkey.  It's cheaper travelling with the Bank reps than taking a commercial portkey," he added.

Harry nodded, but didn't know what else to say.  Fortunately, there was a soft chirp and Rosebud, Ron's kneazle, crawled out from behind one of his bed curtains.  Ron picked her up.

"Is she going with you?" Harry asked.

Ron grinned.  "Yeah.  They love kneazles out there!  Besides, I want to show her to Bill."

"And, er … you'll be back in August, right?"

"That's right.  It's about five weeks, mate, that's all." 

All?  It seemed like most of the summer to Harry.  Five weeks, during which he would mostly be here at Hogwarts being taught things like advanced duelling.  The idea was suddenly no longer attractive.

Ron put Rosebud back on the bed and dug his hands into his pockets. 

"You've got loads of stuff to do," he said awkwardly.  "It's going to be brilliant."

"Getting the shit knocked out of me by Snape and Sirius?" Harry said, trying to smile.  "Yeah, that'll probably be fun."

"There's the Animation too," Ron pointed out.  "Flitwick's okay."

"I s'pose."  Then Harry saw Ron's face and felt guilty.  It wasn't fair to spoil his friend's excitement about his trip just because he selfishly wanted him here instead.  He dragged a grin out from somewhere.  "Just - just don't get shut in a tomb or anything, okay?  And steer clear of any curses."

Ron snorted his amusement.  "Mum'll have sent Bill so many instructions about what I'm not allowed to do that he'll probably strap me to a chair when I arrive and spoon-feed me for the whole time."

"It'll be cool," Harry said.  "You could … send me a postcard, maybe."

Ron nodded vigorously.  "Of course!"

They fell silent again.  Finally, Ron gathered himself and stepped forward, pulling Harry into a hug.

"Just five weeks, mate," he said into his ear.  "I'll be back weeks before the end of the holiday and I'll come and see you.  Just don't have any more spats with You Know Who before then, okay?"

"I'm not planning on it," Harry said, managing a small laugh.

Someone cleared their throat pointedly.

Harry and Ron leapt apart to find Professor McGonagall standing in the doorway of the dormitory.  She looked resigned when she saw who was with Ron.

"Well, that explains _one_ mystery at least," she irritably.  "Mr. Potter, what are you doing here?  The Headmaster sent a House-elf to find you half an hour ago."

Harry shuffled uncomfortably under the sharp eyes of the Deputy Headmistress. 

"I didn't know, Professor - "

"Never mind.  Professor Dumbledore is waiting, so I suggest you tidy yourself up and hurry along."  She turned to Ron.  "Mr. Weasley, I hope you're almost packed.  Your father will be here in half an hour to collect you and I want you at the front entrance, ready to leave, as soon as he arrives.  I understand he's booked seats on the Knight Bus for the two of you; it won't do to be late."

Ron looked a little green at this news, but he nodded resolutely.  "I'm nearly finished, Professor.  I've just got to put Rosebud's stuff in a bag and say goodbye to my sister and Hermione."

"Very well.  Hurry along, the pair of you."

With a final stern look, she disappeared back down the stairs.

Ron dragged a small rucksack out of his bedside cabinet and grabbed Rosebud's basket, supper and water dishes, and squeaky cat toys from where they were tucked under his bed.  He stuffed them hastily into the rucksack, then grabbed up his school robe and tossed it over his shoulder.

"Give me a hand with my trunk, will you, Harry?"

Between them they managed to manoeuvre it safely down the narrow stone stairs, without dislodging Rosebud who insisted on sitting on top of it.  There were more people in the common room as they walked through and Harry felt the hair standing up on the back of his neck at the looks they were getting.  Ron seemed immune, but Harry was relieved when they awkwardly lifted the trunk through the portrait hole and it swung shut behind them.

"You'd better get along to Dumbledore's office," Ron said quietly.  "I can manage from here."

"Let me just help you get your trunk down to the entrance hall - "

Running footsteps heralded the arrival of Hermione and Ginny, the former puffing under the weight of the pile of books she was carrying as she dashed down the corridor.

"They'll help me, mate," Ron said.  "Go on.  You shouldn't keep him waiting."

Hermione slithered to a halt on the smooth stone flags. "Ron!  I thought we were going to miss you!  Hello Harry."   She put her books in a tidy pile near the portrait of the Fat Lady.  "Do you need a hand with that trunk?"




Something was tugging on Harry's trouser leg; when he looked down, it was Dobby the House-elf.

"Harry Potter is seeing Professor Dumbledore now, Sir!  You is very late - Dobby is looking everywhere for you!"

Harry looked helplessly at Ron, but the redhead nodded. 

"Go on, mate.  I'll see you in August."

It wasn't the goodbye Harry had planned at all, but there was no other option.  He was forced to shake hands with Ron as though they were passing acquaintances and leave him in the corridor to be smothered in hugs and kisses from the two girls, while Harry followed the agitated House-elf down the passage to the Headmaster's office.

 

xXx

 

Professor Snape was waiting with the Headmaster when Harry finally arrived.  This did not improve the boy's mood; under other circumstances he might have attempted an explanation for his tardiness, but under Snape's cold eyes he fell silent.

As usual, Dumbledore seemed not to notice.  He greeted Harry cheerily and urged him to take a seat with them by the fireplace.

"Just a quick chat, my boy.  As I was just saying to Professor Snape, we must think about a programme of extra-curricular lessons for you, although I anticipate that most of your time with us will be divided between various forms of advanced Defence and Professor Flitwick teaching you the principles of Animation.

"And when we say _advanced Defence_ , Potter, that will include Occlumency," Snape put in coolly.

Harry was tempted to make a sarcastic rejoinder, but managed to hold his tongue.

"Indeed, Occlumency and possibly the principles of Legilimency," Dumbledore agreed, "although I am loath to confuse Harry with too many new subjects in such a short space of time.  Kingsley has suggested going through the basics of some of the subjects taught to trainee Aurors, those which he feels may be of use to Harry.  That would be more practical in the short term. 

"But we get ahead of ourselves.  Harry, this is what we are going to do: To avoid drawing unnecessary attention to our plans for you, you will return to London on the Hogwarts Express with your classmates on Friday.  You will have a few days at home with Sirius and Remus while we prepare, then Sirius will bring you back to Hogwarts discreetly for the extra lessons.  We will return you home again either on or just after your birthday, where the – how shall we call it? second phase of the project? – will commence."

"It is important, Potter, that no one knows of these plans," Snape said, and his eyes were suddenly fixed on Harry's face grimly.  "I daresay there is no need for me to stress that none of your Housemates should become aware of them.  And I do mean _none_ of them, not even Zabini.  Is that clear?"

Harry felt annoyed.  He might get along quite well with Blaise, but he wasn't stupid enough to trust him with something like this.  Bad enough that the other Slytherin had somehow found out about the Patronus lessons ….  Harry was suddenly assailed by a doubt.  What about Granger?  Had Ron told her about the summer lessons?  But Snape was staring at him.

"Perfectly clear, sir," Harry said through gritted teeth.

"And Harry," Dumbledore said quietly.  "It may well prove unnecessary, but I would suggest that you stay alert during the train journey home."

Harry stared at him, then looked at Snape.  His Head of House was looking grimmer than ever.

"Let's say that I mistrust Miss Parkinson's quiescence lately," the Potions Master said dryly.

Oh marvellous.  If _Snape_ was warning him to be careful, then there must really be something afoot in Slytherin.  And it made perfect sense that Pansy would wait until they were all on the Hogwarts Express; it wouldn't be the first time someone had tried something on Harry there.

So much for relaxing over the next three days.  On the contrary, it looked as though Harry was going to have to spend it eavesdropping for information in the Slytherin Common Room instead … always an exhausting and frustrating exercise.

 

xXx

 

Harry was very tense as he climbed out of his thestral-drawn carriage and dragged his trunk out onto the platform at Hogsmeade Station.  After three days of lurking, both openly and under his Invisibility Cloak, in the Slytherin Common Room and trying to catch his dormitory-mates out, he was tired and jumpy and no further forward.  If something was being planned for him on the train home, he hadn't caught a whisper of it.

No one was behaving strangely, watching him or trailing him or whispering, as he walked down the platform looking for a compartment that wasn't already stuffed with over-excited kids.  He wondered if, as usual, he was going to have to impose himself upon a gang of uneasy Hufflepuffs or Ravenclaws and spend the entire journey hidden behind a book and ignoring their whispering –

"Next one along, Harry.  No, don't turn around!  Just get inside."

That was Granger's voice!  But there was no time to question her, however discreetly; Harry did as she said and grabbed the handle of the next compartment door he came to.  The compartment was empty and when he turned to pull his trunk inside, there was a Ravenclaw boy he didn't recognise lifting the other end of it to help him.  The strange Ravenclaw climbed in too, followed by Hermione Granger, Ginny Weasley and Neville Longbottom. 

"What the – " Harry began, but the unknown Ravenclaw boy hushed him sharply.

"Shut the sliding door first!"

Who the hell was he, anyway?  Harry grabbed the door to the corridor and slid it shut, cutting off the bedlamite noise of the rest of the train, then turned back.

"Dumbledore's orders," Hermione hissed, before he could say anything.  "It's just a precaution!  He seemed to think someone might be planning a – a kind of accident for you."

"Nothing fatal," the Ravenclaw assured him.  "But something that might be a bit inconvenient for you over the summer, if you know what I mean."

 _What!_

"Who the hell are you?" Harry demanded.  "I don't think I've ever seen you before in my life, so how do you – "

"Harry, I'm hurt!"  The Ravenclaw was grinning at him in an oddly familiar way.  Then he winked – crossed his eyes – and his face seemed to melt ….

"Tonks!" Harry said in disbelief, and Ginny began to giggle.

"Wotcher, Harry!  Nice to know I'm not losing my touch."  For a moment the more familiar female face of Nymphadora Tonks stared out from under the neatly cropped thatch of blond hair.  "Better stay in disguise, just in case …."  And she crossed her eyes again, reverting to the Ravenclaw boy.  "It's Dad's old uniform," she explained.  "I thought a Ravenclaw lad might be less obvious than a Gryffindor girl."

"But …."

"Not the first time I've been on the train, keeping an eye on you, either," Tonks said cheerfully.  "I was a Muggleborn first year last September – now _that_ was a challenge.  My height's the most tricky thing to change, you know."

She slouched on the seat opposite, looking thoroughly pleased with herself.  And Harry had to admit that she really did look like a boy, body language and all.  But he would have been more impressed if he hadn't been so annoyed - dammit, he didn't need to be nannied by an Auror and three members of a crackpot school duelling club.  He was perfectly capable of looking after himself.  And even less did he like the news that the Order of the Phoenix had been acting as his self-imposed bodyguards since the previous summer.

It wasn't until he'd dug Sirius's book on the Animagus transformation out of his trunk and tucked himself sullenly into a corner with it that he could admit to himself that the part he really hated was having to spend eight hours trapped in the compartment with Tonks.  He had so many mixed feelings about her these days that he wasn't sure he could keep a civil tongue in his head for that long – and Remus Lupin would have something to say to him if he didn't.

This was going to be a _long_ journey.

Tonks accepted the rebuff with a rueful smile and turned to the other three, all of whom where watching the exchange with varying degrees of concern.

"Snakes and ladders, anyone?" she asked brightly, pulling a folding board out of her robes.

 ******\- The End -**


End file.
